


Disconsolate

by AwesomeMango7



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: :(, Alcoholism, Angst, Cutting, Drinking, Eating Disorders, Loneliness, M/M, Morty’s very despressed, Panic Attacks, Rick’s stupid, Sad, depresson, underaged drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17320013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeMango7/pseuds/AwesomeMango7
Summary: Morty is depressed and starts cutting himself. Rick finds out.(This summary sucks but I don’t want to spoil anything.)





	1. Promise?

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare yourselves for sadness.

Today was a long day.

Well, every day had seemed unbearably long for a while now, so the fact that the day felt ‘longer than usual’ was actually becoming the norm for Morty Smith.

He didn’t quite understand why, but no matter how much sleep he got these days he always felt tired. It made him feel older than he really was. As a sixteen year old, he felt like he was seventy— and he might as well already be that old with everything he’s been through.

He’s almost died, he’s killed people and aliens, been to space, gone to and escaped from prison, saved alien princess, started and ended wars on other planets, flown spaceships, been to the city of Atlantis, fought alongside superheros, been physically mutated and then put back to together, stolen from banks, had limbs severed and grown back, had his heart stop for a few minutes on several separate occasions, saved the Earth from alien invasions, killed clones of himself and everyone in his family, and so much more.

He was a fugitive, byproduct of being his grandfather’s grandson, known across the universe as an intergalactic _criminal_. He was both known for horrendous crimes, and heroic acts. He couldn’t even remember how many planets and dimensions he’d visited throughout his life.

To think that he was only _sixteen_ years old said a lot about how much he’d been through.

It was no wonder he never felt like he was young anymore. He felt old and worn down— constantly _exhausted_ , even when he managed to not have a nightmare that night and got a full night’s rest.

It took him a while to realize that not everyone felt like this every single day of their life, and it took him an even longer time to realize that he hadn’t _always_ felt this exhausted all the time.

He hadn’t felt this way before Rick had shown up in his life— he loved the man, and he absolutely did love the adventures (not the ones where someone got hurt, though) but it really had taken a toll on him over the past three years.

Actually, it had probably been more than three years. Morty didn’t even know how old he really was anymore. He and Rick had been in multiple situations where time had been all fucked up.

One time, he and Rick had been stuck inside of the Ship’s car battery for a couple of months, but in the real world it had only been a couple of hours. It was a bunch of stuff like that, that made Morty completely unsure of his own age anymore— sometimes they were in a situation where time moved too fast compared to the real world, and other times that it moved too slowly.

He could actually be younger than sixteen, or maybe he could be way older— it hurt his head to think about it sometimes. He was just thankful he didn’t _look_ like he was way older than sixteen, which would be his age right now if he hadn’t been though all of those weird time-manipulation situations.

Sometimes he looked at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out how old he looked like he was. He wanted to say he was younger. He was still very short, and a bit of baby-fat still seemed to stubbornly cling to his cheeks. He looked like a _child_ , and he couldn’t deny that.

His voice was still in that phase where it wasn’t quite deep yet, and it cracked pretty horribly at times— all of that screamed younger to him, and his stutter only seemed to exasperate the effect.

But when he looked at the small scars he had in a few places Rick hadn’t been able to fix properly in tough situations, he thought he looked older— and, mentally, he had to admit he definitely _felt_ older. 

He could never truly tell his own age, though, and he felt something within him break each time he thought about it.

It somehow made him feel less human, less _real_ — like he didn’t really exist, and it made him all that more aware of how little he mattered to everything and everyone.

But at this point, did his age even really matter anymore? Nothing really seemed to matter in the grand scheme of things.

Speaking of, he glanced down at the report card he was holding carelessly in his hand, staring at the letters that were supposed to tell him exactly how smart he was.

 

**_——————_ **

_**Smith, Mortimer** _

_**Sophomore** _

_**Age 16** _

__

_**Int. Math II — F** _

_**Physical Science I — C** _

_**English II — F** _

_**Homeroom — N/A** _

_**Spanish I — F** _

_**Drivers Ed. — D** _

_**U.S. History — F** _

_**Mythology — D** _

_**——————** _

 

He sighed heavily, looking away from the piece of paper carelessly. He didn’t feel all that horrible about his grades. How could he be all that surprised when he completely lacked the motivation when it came to doing homework or completing projects?

He just never managed to get all the way through it before he felt an overwhelming, heavy feeling inside his gut that told him how pointless it would be to actually get it done. School was dumb. Most things were dumb. It wasn’t worth the effort it took to get a good grade. Not many things were worth it these days.

The bell sounded and students began to flood out into the hallways, happy that the day was finally over and that they had a whole two days off before they had to start the week all over again.

Morty waited a few moments before packing his things up and heading out into the hallways. He pushed his way slowly through the masses until he finally made it out the front doors and to the bus lines.

He wasn’t as glad as everyone else was for the weekend to finally be here again. While he felt like shit practically every day, at least _school_ was some form of distraction. When left at home, he closed himself off in his room and spent a majority of his time sulking. He was usually either napping or _attempting_ to entertain himself with YouTube videos or Netflix.

Morty was split between wishing Rick would distract him with an adventure or just leave him be. And honestly, it seemed these days Rick was more likely to just leave the teen be. He didn’t take him on adventures as often as he used to.

Morty was both thankful and resentful of this little detail.

For one thing, he was traumatized less often, and he actually had some form of normalcy and structure now that he wasn’t constantly worried about weather or not today was his last day alive. But for another... he felt ignored and rejected. He was never one to have a big voice. If he got hurt, he stayed quiet about it. And Rick ignoring him most of the time _hurt._

And it was all because Rick had invented a machine that could produce a brainwave pattern similar to Morty’s. He never took him on adventures that didn’t involve needing an extra set of hands, and it was sometimes just so... _frustrating_.

Sometimes, when Morty saw that little bracelet around Rick’s wrist— the one that was metal, and had the words ‘Morty-Wave’ etched onto the side of it— every time he saw it, a little part of him wanted to rip it off of Rick’s wrist and smash it on the ground under his shoe. He wanted to scream at Rick, grab him by the labels of that stupid lab coat of his and shake some sense into him.

But he knew he wouldn’t, even if he could. Rick, for some reason, took a lot of pride in the device. Even if he hated it, Morty could never take something away from the old man when he seemed so happy about it.

Maybe it was because he finally proved he didn’t actually _need_ Morty, or maybe he was just happy that he didn’t have to drag him around the universe with him anymore— as if he had only been a ball and chain to him this entire time— that the friendship and experiences they shared together only meant something to Morty, and not Rick, all along. Morty didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to squirm his way into Rick’s heart, and at some point, he stopped caring about it, too.

Sure, he _missed_ hanging out with Rick. He _missed_ going to Blitz and Chits, and going on adventures across the cosmos, but ever since he invented that _damn_ bracelet, they’d been doing that stuff less and less. But just like Rick left everyone, he was leaving Morty, too.

It was weird for Morty to feel jealous of a simple _machine_. For one thing, it did him a favor— it stopped Rick from using him like _he_ was the machine. Because before all of this, that’s all Morty had been to him— Just a machine that produced a stupid enough wave to cancel out his own.

But he was jealous because, somewhere along the way, even if the whole time Rick had only been using him, he grew to love the adventures. How could one _not_  fall in love with the rest of the universe once they saw it?

But now he hardly ever even saw Rick _or_ his precious Portal Gun. He probably loved that thing more than he loved anyone.

He didn’t feel as hurt about it as he had about four months ago, when he’d invented the damn bracelet. Now he just... sorta felt numb to pretty much everything. He hardly saw his unrequited best friend these days anyway.

He stepped onto his bus as it arrived and sat in the third seat down. It was the perfect spot because it wasn’t too far back, where the rowdy kids sat, and it was _just_ far back enough that you didn’t have to deal with accidentally pulling the emergency lever should you decide to lay your head on the window, or not have room for your legs because of the wheel bump.

He ignored the kids that tried to get his attention and threw balls of paper at him. Bullying was a common thing that happened to him, but it was easy to ignore once he stopped caring about a lot of things. It used to effect him a lot more. He had, more than a _few_ times, cried himself to sleep because of things other kids had said to him.

But now the words and insults only rolled off his back like water off of a duck because he’d heard it all before. It was always the same, no matter where he went.

The rest of the ride home went by in a fuzzy haze. He almost hadn’t realized it when he actually made it home, and the bus driver had to snap their fingers in his face to get him to focus on the real world again.

The other kids on the bus laughed at him as he got off. Morty shrugged it off. It didn’t matter what they thought of him, even if sometimes it did hurt when they insulted him.

His backpack felt unbearably heavy as he entered his almost unwelcoming home. His mother was passed out on the couch, a half empty bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table. She was still dressed in her work clothes, and upon further inspection, her lipstick and mascara was smudged across her face.

Morty sighed as he trudged his way up to his room and deposited his backpack at the foot of his bed before returning to the living room.

He kneeled in front of his mother on the couch and gently shook her shoulder. “Mom.” He said quietly. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

Beth stirred awake, mumbling a few unintelligible words that Morty just didn’t quite catch. Upon seeing her son, Beth’s lips stretched into a watery smile. “Morty, baby.” She slurred, reaching out to him with an uncoordinated hand.

“H-Hi, mom,” Morty smiled weakly back at her, taking a hold of her outstretched hand. He had to help her to bed like this more often than he’d like to think about. “I’m g-gonna help you to bed, alright?” 

She was completely wasted, but it wasn’t all that abnormal of a sight for him. He was sad to realize such a thing.

Alcoholism seemed to somehow run in the family, even if it wasn’t technically genetic.

Morty’s been drunk before in the past. He’d snuck a bottle or two (well, more like five, on five separate occasions) back when he first started adventuring with Rick and things became too much for his innocent little heart to handle.

The thing that made stealing the bottles so easy was the fact that Rick and Beth drank so much that they could hardly keep up with how much they had left. It wasn’t all that surprising to them if they ‘forgot’ how much they’d had, or couldn’t remember how many bottles they had left. Therefore, if a bottle or two was taken, they’d just think they forgot about it.

You just had to make sure not to take _too_ much of it.

It was actually harder to steal from Rick, and he’d only managed to steal one bottle from him; he got caught and lectured pretty damn badly the second time he attempted to steal from the old man. So, he’d stuck with just stealing his mother’s wine.

Summer caught him once and they climbed up onto the roof and drank half of the bottle together. It was the only way he could get her to keep her mouth shut about it, and he’d actually had a little bit of fun talking with her that night.

Now, however, Summer was off in some dorm for the collage she was going to. He didn’t get to talk to her anymore, except on holidays when she came to visit. Morty was kind of envious of how she’d managed to escape. Home was home, but it was toxic, and everyone who stayed ended up falling apart. Morty was already well along the way, but he still had a couple of years to go before he could try to escape like Summer managed to do.

It had actually been two whole years since Morty’d had a single drop of alcohol, though. Seeing his mother in the condition she was in right now reminded him why he made that secret vow to himself— to never drink. Maybe along the way, he’d let a few slips— a shot on a holiday, a quick sip from someone’s flask if offered. Maybe a couple of nights at a bar for fun.

But he made a secret promise to himself to never drink to get drunk— never drink in an attempt to suppress his pain. He never wanted to end up like his mother, and he _feared_ ending up like Rick.

As much of a genius as that man was, and as much as Morty looked up to him, he’d never wanted to actually _be_ him. He wanted to be better than him— to be _happier_ than he ended up. He loved him, but the man was completely withered and disturbed at this point in his life.

Morty didn’t want that. He’d already seen how parts of him had become similar to Rick, like his apathy, and his occasional lack of empathy. Some of his morals at this point were just... _gone_. They’d been washed away, and for a while, Morty hadn’t even noticed.

One day he scared himself when he held a laser gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger without question when Rick instructed him to do so. His blood and brains had splattered all over the wall, decorating it with a vibrant red— the color was forever seared inside Morty’s memories. His body had spasmed for a moment before it collapsed on the ground at his feet. His eyes had been wide open, but they were empty. _Dead_.

Morty had even got blood on his white sneakers, unable to wash the stains out for _weeks_ , and he’d felt _nothing_. No pity, no pain or sorrow or _guilt_. He’d felt absolutely _nothing_ for the man that he’d murdered in cold blood, _nothing_ for the family that would surely grieve over his absence in life. He didn’t even know _why_ Rick had wanted him dead— for all he knew, the man could have been entirely innocent, but he hadn’t _cared_.

That had been the first time he’d felt no remorse for murdering someone, and he’d never been more _terrified of himself_ before in that moment. _Terrified_ of what he could do, who he could kill, how he’d lose everything that he once was.

He _feared_ losing himself more than he feared anything, and that’s why he had to do everything he could to break they cycle of his family’s history.

He didn’t _want_ to feel nothing, didn’t want to be desensitized to seeing a pair of empty eyes that lacked the soul of the person who once _lived_ inside that corpse. He wanted to feel the guilt and the hurt like he once did all that time ago, because at least, if he did, he would be able to tell wether of not he’d fucking lost his shit yet.

“Bed?” Beth questioned, pulling Morty from his thoughts.

Morty took a moment to force his eyes to focus on his drunken mother, trying to pull his mind back to reality. It seemed his mind had made a habit of spacing off recently. “Y-Yeah, mom.” He said. “C’mon, I’ll-I’ll help you up the stairs.”

He slowly helped his mother stand and guided her carefully up the stairs and to hers and Jerry’s room. She collapsed on her side of the bed in a heap, and Morty slowly and carefully tucked her in. “You’re such a good son, Morty. ‘M proud to have you as _my_ son.” Beth slurred, looking at the brunette with tears forming in her eyes. Despite the praising words, she looked like her heart was breaking inside her chest. “‘m srry ‘m such a bad mom.”

Morty sighed, patting his mother’s shoulder in a reassuring away. He didn’t hold any blame to her. “You’re not a bad mom. I-I love you, okay? Remember that.” He knew she wouldn’t remember— she was far too wasted. But he felt better asking her to remember; it helped him pretend that she would. That tomorrow, she wouldn’t feel like a bad mom.

Morty truly and honestly didn’t blame her for his own hardships. He was so broken inside, but he knew his mother was broken, too.

Beth shook her head, reaching a hand out to cup the side of Morty’s face. “No, I am a bad mom. But you’re such a good kid, Morty. Promise you’ll never be like me, Morty. Never be like Jerry. Never be like your grandpa.”

Morty felt an emotion bloom inside of him for the first time all day. Sorrow, longing, hope. It was so weird for his mother to ask for such a thing. He could understand why she didn’t want him to turn into herself or Jerry, but it was turning into _Rick_ that really confused him.

Beth has always held Rick on a pedestal, no matter how horrible he could be to everyone in the family. She threw so much away just to keep him at the house. It was surprising and almost... _relieving_ that she didn’t want Morty to end up like him.

He placed his hand over hers, feeling his own eyes brim with tears he wouldn’t be letting go of anytime soon. “I-I promise.” He said. “I-I’ll be different.” He meant every word, and even though the chances were that Beth would never remember this, Morty _would._

He’d remember this moment until the day he died. He would remember his promise to be be different.

The smile on Beth’s face was almost radiant, if not for how shaky and strained it was. But at least it was genuine. Almost immediately after, her eyes drifted closed and she passed out once again.

Morty carefully pulled away from her, positioning her arms comfortably on the bed. His heart was heavy and his mind was swirling with the lingering emotions of the moment.

 _‘I’ll be different,’_ He promised himself.

Even if he didn’t get good grades, even if he knew he was clumsy and stupid, even if he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, even if he was already broken in so many different ways, he was going to be different. He wasn’t going to fall into anyone’s footsteps but his own. He wasn’t going to let himself fall like everyone else in his family has.

He wasn’t going to kill, he wasn’t going to drink, he wasn’t going to let himself completely unravel.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes.

 _‘I’ll be better.’_ He promised himself once again as he left his parent’s bedroom

 

And he could only hope that he’d be able to keep that promise.


	2. I want to feel something again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There’s cutting in this chapter, so if that’s a trigger for you, please don’t read. There will also be cutting in future chapters.

 

Morty knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but... it made him feel _something,_ so it stopped him from caring. 

He was off to a rough start when it came to being ‘different’ from everyone else in his family. He guessed, he was already tortured, like everyone else. And while it wasn’t _alcohol,_ it was... _almost_ like an addiction.

Would cutting even be considered an addiction?

Morty took a moment to contemplate the answer as he dragged the razor across his wrist for the third time today, his milky white skin splitting apart as blood pooled to the surface. The sting felt horrible and wonderful at the same time, and he couldn’t help but drag the blade slowly to make the feeling last longer. 

Now that he really sat down and thought about it, cutting had an alternating purpose, but yeah, he guessed it was an addiction like any other. 

The difference between cutting and alcoholism was that one made you feel numb, and the other made you feel _something_. And Morty was cutting _because_ he struggled to feel anything at all. 

The cutting gave him a brief period of relief... and even though it only made him feel worse than before once he stopped, it felt... like _something_ while he was doing it. And something was better than nothing, right? 

He’d lost the answer somewhere after the first couple of cuts. 

Alcoholism and cutting were similar because, when the addiction starts, you always think ‘just one more time,’ even though it’s never the last time. There’s _always_ one more time, and there always will be. Just one more shot of whisky, just one more cut. 

It’s always just one more time.

Well, until you take it too far one day and end up dead. But even when you acknowledge that hard, cold fact, it still doesn’t stop you from doing it ‘just one more time.’

Morty had thought that to himself at the start. ‘Just one more cut.’ He’d only been cutting for about three weeks, but already, he was aware of how hard it would actually be to stop. Saying you’ll stop is one thing, but _actually_ stopping is on a completely different level. 

He did it the first time because he’d had a panic attack. He wasn’t fully sure of the source, but it happened right after he and Rick got back from an adventure. It had been the first adventure they’d had in over a couple of weeks, and, of course, Rick only dragged him along in the first place because it was an exclusively two-person job; therefore, the old man hadn’t had a choice but to bring him along. 

It had gone pretty well. He and Rick didn’t talk very much other than when the older of the two had been barking out instructions. Morty did everything without messing up, for once. Rick had even, albeit vaguely, praised him for his success with a light ruffle of his hair. 

But for some unknown reason, when they got home, Morty was just sitting at his computer desk, browsing the Internet, when it hit him all of a sudden, without any warning at all. 

His chest got tight, and he couldn’t breathe, and his heart had been beating a mile a minute. He hadn’t felt that much emotion in a while. Thoughts like, ‘Rick hates me,’ and ‘I’m dying,’ kept bouncing around inside his head.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he hated himself, or about how much he missed Rick, about how much Rick hated him, about how he was abandoning him, about how he was _dying_ , even though he knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about how alone he was, how _unloved_ he felt and how he was slowly going insane living in _his_ life, inside _his_ body— because he hated himself, he hated his life, and he was _so scared._

He’d rushed into the bathroom, the only room with a lock on the door, and curled up in the small space between the toilet and the bathtub, and he _sobbed_.

He hadn’t cried in a long time, but the spontaneous panic attack forced it out of him. He couldn’t stop the tears from bursting from his eyes and trailing down his cheeks, couldn’t stop the silent gasps for air that he couldn’t seem to take in, couldn’t stop pulling at the strands of his brown hair like he was trying to rip it out.

It shocked him how quiet he managed to make the sound. Despite how loudly his head was screaming, how rapid and crazy his thoughts were, Morty had been entirely _silent_. Even with the cacophony of noise inside of his brain and ears, he didn’t make a single sound. He was entirely unable to. 

And as the panic attack progressed, the more the pain seemed to leave him. The emotion he’d so desperately been reaching out for, so desperately been searching for— it was leaving him again, and he couldn’t have that. 

He thought of all the people he’d killed, that man that had a family, that man whose blood stained his sneakers all that time ago, and he finally felt the _guilt_ — It hurt so much inside of his chest, but he _needed_ that emotion. 

He could feel it leaving him, feel the emotion already slipping past his fingers like water, and _he just couldn’t let that happen._

So, before he could even think about what he was doing, he grabbed his father’s razor from the bathtub shelf and dragged it across his wrist in one quick, swift movement. He didn’t even think about it, didn’t even _hesitate_.

He yelped at the burning, stinging pain that radiated from his arm, and he watched as blood began to pool out of the shredded patch of skin. It reminded him that he was _human_ , and that he was still _alive_. He was breathing, and his heart was beating, and he felt relief seep deeply into his bones, the emotions once again flooding him as he pressed his hand harshly into the open wound. 

The pain hurt so much but it felt so _good_ somehow. It meant he was still capable of _feeling_ , when before he’d been so convinced that he’d be numb forever. 

He slowly lifted his hand from the wound, looking at the blood that was smeared all over his skin. And through his tears, he’d _laughed_.

Laughed at how he hadn’t tired this before, _laughed_ how simple it could have been for him to _feel something again._

The small few moments of relief felt so good to him that he kept doing it, even when he started to feel bad for doing it. Even when the pain stopped being pleasant and started to actually hurt. 

Three weeks in of cutting every few days, and Morty was still basking in the emotion each new cut gave him. He was still new to this, so he wasn’t all surprised when he hesitated before each cut, and winced each time he dragged the razor across his pale skin. He knew that, with time, he’d be able to do this without so much shock from the pain.

He dreaded that day, because he knew eventually the cuts wouldn’t help him as much. He was usually satisfied with one to three cuts, but what if at some point that stopped being enough?

Then where would he be?

 

Would he have nothing again? 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short, but I’m satisfied with where it is, so I’m just gonna stick with it. And another warning— none of the chapter lengths in any of my stories will ever be consistent, so I’m sorry for that. Sometimes they’ll be so long that it’s too much to read, and other times it’ll almost be too little to read. XD
> 
> so, sorry about that, lol.


	3. Bumble Bee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re in a volcano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I’ve been, like, dead recently guys. All of my fics have been on hiatus for a while. I don’t mean for it to be that way, but I have a lot of stuff going on in my life right now, and I also have a bunch of other fics planned, but I can’t even post them until I get these other ones all finished. It’s just a nightmare, guys, but I’m trying lol. I really love writing, but it just takes up so much time and effort. I won’t stop any time soon, so don’t worry about that, but I haven’t really had the opportunity to write as much as I’m used to recently. 
> 
> Anyhoo, please enjoy what I can post for now. Thanks for being patient.

Morty had been wearing a black jacket over his usual yellow shirt since he’d started cutting, and no one questioned it because it was Fall, and it was starting to get cold outside. He had bandages wrapped around his left arm, concealed under the sleeve of the jacket. 

He mostly only did that to prevent infection— he cut to hurt himself, but getting sick over it was too much. And if he got sick, he’d have to tell someone about the cutting. And that was the last thing he wanted to do. 

It pulsed lightly with pain, but he ignored it. After the initial shock of cutting wore off, the pain just became... _pain._ And it quickly became irritating and itchy.

Sometimes the lingering pain was a good feeling, but other times... it was just unbelievably itchy, and he couldn’t scratch at it without ripping the scabs off. 

He hated that not long after each time he cut, he felt worse than before he’d done it. It was like doing a bad drug— you do it to feel good, but when you crash, you’re left feeling like absolute shit. And Morty felt even more tired than usual because of how much he was cutting. 

He unconsciously scratched at his arm through his sleeve, and winced when he accidentally put pressure on a particularly new cut. He focused on the food in front of him instead of the constant itch, poking at the scrambled eggs with his fork. He wasn’t hungry and had only bitten off a few pieces of his toast. 

“Morty, honey, aren’t you hungry?” His mother asked him from across the table.

Morty looked up to see her staring at him with a curious frown. “N-no, not r-r-really... I’ll just eat lunch later to make up for not eating breakfast.” He shrugged, pushing his plate away.

He probably wouldn’t eat lunch later. 

He struggled to have much of an appetite these days. He knew he was hungry— sometimes he’d go most of the day without eating, and he could hear his stomach growling. He could feel the pain of hunger, and he could feel the effects of weakness that it gave him, but he wasn’t motivated to eat in the slightest. 

He usually waited the entire day, all the way until it was late in the night, before he went to the kitchen and forced himself to eat at least _something._

And he ate nearly to the point of throwing up, which was literally only like two granola bars. He tried to eat just enough to keep himself alive, but anything more than that, and he’d get sick. 

He’d noticed that he’d lost weight recently— he could see his ribs clearly in the mirror, and his stomach stopped sticking out slightly. He could see his hip bones more clearly, too, which actually kind of freaked him out. His collar bones were easily seen, too, and all of his jeans were way looser than normal on him. Sometimes his normal yellow shirts hung off of his shoulders, but nobody noticed because of the black jacket. 

He wanted to fix his eating habits, and he definitely planned to, but it was so hard to do right now. It’s like his body wanted to reject anything that he put inside of it, wether it was healthy or not. 

He wasn’t all that surprised to realize that not a single one of his family members noticed his significant loss of weight. Morty still thought he was pretty heavy, in all honesty, but not as heavy as before. 

He’d always felt bad about his body. He hated how thick his calfs and thighs were, and how much his stomach stuck out. He _hated_ when he looked in the mirror and saw the baby-fat that had stubbornly clung to his face. 

And even now, while he didn’t have to deal with that stuff, he was still unhappy with his body. He guessed he never would be happy with it. He felt gross, ugly, and gangly. There was nothing he could do about it, though. 

“Y-y-you actually might want to finish that, Morty.” Rick spoke up gruffly, scarfing down his own plate of food as if he were a starving man. “We—we gotta get goin’ on an adventure today, and we’ll have to be in the ship for about three hours.”

Morty didn’t want to go on an adventure. The last time they went somewhere, he had a panic attack upon returning from it. 

But he didn’t have the energy to protest. It didn’t matter what he wanted when it came to Rick. It was either be complacent, or Rick would somehow find an alternate way to get exactly what he wanted anyway. 

“I thought you guys weren’t going on adventures anymore?” Jerry asked in a questioning tone.

Rick groaned long and loud, as if he couldn’t even handle the sound of the other man’s voice. Morty was sure Rick couldn’t even handle even his presence at times. “Jesus, Jerry, where the fuck did you h-hear that? What the fuck could imply— could possibly make you draw  _that_  conclusion?”

Jerry scoffed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, _excuse me,_ Rick.” He rolled his eyes. “But I was, in fact, told by _Morty_ that the adventures were over. So if you want to get mad at someone, get mad at _him.”_ He pointed at Morty like a child playing the blame game.

Morty frowned at his father, though he didn’t feel anything from the accusation. It was true that he kinda sorta told his father that the adventures were over. As far as Morty was concerned, Rick hadn’t really been taking him on any these days. It’s almost like his life was normal now (well, mostly). 

And Jerry had been pestering him a few days ago, wondering why he was at home all the time, when before he’d always be on an adventure with Rick. He mostly just said the adventures were over to get Jerry out of his hair— it was the only answer that would satisfy him. 

Rick glared at Morty. “What the hell, Morty? What’s he talking about?”

“Morty, I thought you liked the adventures?” Beth asked, looking at her son in confusion.

Morty became immediately aware that everyone at the table was staring at him. He felt like another brick was added to the many _many_ other bricks that were already stacked up on his shoulders. 

He looked at each of them individually for a moment before scoffing and standing from his spot at the table along with his plate of food. He wasn’t gonna be the one who resolved the dumb, petty arguments his family had. He didn’t want any part of it. 

As he started to walk off into the kitchen, he heard Rick call out of him: “Where do you think you’re going, Morty?!” 

Morty paused in the doorway and turned back to look at him. For some reason the action took a lot of energy from him, like he had to put the same amount of effort into explaining himself that he did if he were to run a marathon. “To the k-kitchen.” He responded plainly. “Tell me when y-you’re ready for the adventure.”

He didn’t wait to see or hear Rick’s reaction and quickly made his way into the kitchen, where he scraped his plate off in the garbage and placed it in the sink. He then dragged his feet as he made it to the living room and sat down on the couch, resting his head in his hand as he waited for Rick to drag him off. 

He heard his parents and Rick arguing quietly in the dining room about something, but be blocked the sound out. He was just tired. Always so tired.

His eyes drifted closed, and before he even knew it, he was out like a light. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Morty,” Someonone shook his shoulder. “Morty, g-get your ass up. Christ, I didn’t know I-it was possible for someone to fall asleep so quickly. It’s been like, what, ten minutes? And you’re already passed out?”

Morty slowly cracked his eyes open and saw Rick crouching in front of him. He sighed, sitting up. “Aw geez, is it time for the adventure?” He asked, rubbing at his tired eyes. 

Rick scoffed. “What crawled up _your_ ass?” He muttered.

Morty furrowed his brow, confused. “What’re you talking about?” He wasn’t using any attitude, was he? Why did Rick think something was up with him? He’s been entirely complacent, not denying Rick anything that he asked of him. He didn’t understand why Rick was acting like he was making a scene. 

“Are you sure you’re even up for an adventure?” Rick questioned. He seemed very irritated, but Morty had no clue as to what he’d done wrong.

“Yeah?” Morty replied with a confused tone. He didn’t understand what point Rick was trying to make. 

“Yeah, _sure_ you are.” Rick rolled his eyes, reaching down to grab Morty’s arm and tug him off of the couch.

Morty internally winced. That was the arm that had the cuts. He somehow managed to hide his pain, though, and he let Rick drag him out into the garage. 

“What’s y-your problem?” The brunette asked, a bitter yet calm tone to his voice. “Y-you’re acting like I just fucked something up, but I obviously haven’t.”

Or maybe he had? And if he did, what the fuck did he do?

“You’re acting fuckin’ weird, Morty.” Rick said, releasing Morty’s arm and turning to face him. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Morty in that way he did when he was trying to get him to confess something. 

Morty frowned, rubbing at his sore arm. “Why does that matter? Am I not allowed to be in a mood? Am I not allowed to have bad days?”

_Why did he suddenly care now?_

Morty couldn’t believe Rick sometimes. It’s like he thought he was a robot that didn’t have emotions. He always expected him to be perfectly happy and normal, but he _wasn’t_. And he always acted like this when Morty didn’t humor him— like he was shocked Morty could actually have feelings, just like a normal human being. 

He had to realize at some point that he was changing constantly, right? Because no human being ever stayed the same forever. From moment to moment, everyone becomes slightly different. Rick acted like Morty would always be there, that he would always be the same, but he _wouldn’t_. 

He hoped that reality would kick in for Rick soon so he wouldn’t have to deal with this each time he had a bad day. _Especially_ since pretty much all of his days had been bad recently. 

Rick stared him down, like he was trying several different phycological tactics to get Morty to confess to something, but the brunette still had no clue what he was doing wrong, so he stared back at Rick with the same intensity. If he had done something wrong and knew it, he would have broke. But he hadn’t, so it was easy for him to stand strong like this. 

Rick was the first one to break, and he looked away with another scoff. “Just get in the fucking ship.” He muttered, getting into the drivers seat.

Morty reluctantly got into the passenger’s seat and buckled himself in. Rick, however, remained unbuckled as always. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Morty was completely drenched in sweat, and he was overheating in his jacket. The cuts on his arm stung horribly underneath the bandages from the salty sweat, but he tried his best to ignore it.

Rick was in front of him, and his lab coat and blue sweater both tied around his waste. The old man was also covered in sweat, but he seemed not to mind it as much as Morty minded it.

The brunette’s body felt unbelievably heavy, and his motivation for continuing was cut in half with each agonizing step he took. His legs were unbearably shaky, and he almost couldn’t keep himself standing at this point. He was exhausted, sleep deprived, and technically starving even when he didn’t have any motivation for eating. He was so _weak_. 

They were _literally_  inside a volcano. It was a lot like a cave, and they were walking along side a river of lava. The entire place was lit up in a hot, orange glow that seemed to give Morty a headache. It was almost as hot as an oven in here, and Rick hadn’t brought any _fucking_ water with him, much to Morty’s annoyance. 

And it was all for some stupid crystal that Morty didn’t give a single flying fuck about. It was supposed to power some sort of device Rick had invented recently— a lava gun, or something along those lines. Morty hadn’t cared enough about it to remember all the details. 

The further they went on, the less Morty cared about the stupid lava gun. Was it really worth all this trouble when Rick already had an array of cool sci-fi-like guns?

“Rick,” The teen said desperately, his voice strained and dry. He felt like his mouth wasn’t even producing saliva at this point. “It’s s-so hot. Let’s just go back.”

“You’d feel a lot fuckin’ better if you took off that dumbass jacket, Morty.” Rick responded in irritation, and Morty couldn’t help but know he was right. “I m-mean, why are you even still wearing it? It looks fuckin’ stupid on you anyway. You look like a bumblebee with the yellow and black theme goin’ on.”

Morty couldn’t take his jacket off because then Rick would see the bandages. He knew Rick wouldn’t care if he saw them, but there was no doubt in his mind that he’d laugh at him. And Morty would rather die than have Rick laugh at him right now, so he was keeping the jacket on, thank you very much. “I don’t want to take it off...” Morty grumbled under his breath.

“Then you’re fucking _stupid,_ Morty.” Rick growled back, turning his head over his shoulder to send Morty an incredulous look for just a second. “If you die of a heat stroke, don’t come crying to me, alright? I fucking told you how to stop that from happening.”

Morty sighed. Yep, he’s definitely stupid. He didn’t have a single doubt in his mind, but he just couldn’t let Rick see his arm. And even if he did take the jacket off, it would only give him a small amount of relief anyway. It wouldn’t even be worth the effort. “H-how about I just wait here, then?” He asked, a hopeful tone to his voice. “I-I don’t think I can w-walk much longer...”

Rick stopped in his tracks and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He stood like that for a solid twenty seconds, and Morty stared at his back with apprehension, fearful of what he was going to say once he spoke again. 

He felt his heartbeat kick up a notch inside his chest, and he felt horribly awkward and anxious as Rick just stood there. 

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days, Morty.” Rick said, sighing long and heavily. He turned back to look at the teen, an irritated expression on his face. “I can’t afford to leave you here, Morty. Just fuckin’— just— hop on my back. I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”

Morty’s eyes widened at Rick’s offering. “W-What? No way!” He took a step back. There was no way he was going to let Rick carry him. He was bony and old, and he’d collapse under Morty’s weight. “I-I’m not a little kid! I’m too h-heavy for that!”

Rick looked like he was about to have an aneurism. He slowly dragged his hand over his face, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Look, kid,” He said, giving Morty a stern look, almost like he was disciplining a child. “It’s either you take off the fucking jacket, or I give you a piggyback ride. Make up your fucking mind.”

Morty stared at Rick with a frustrated expression. He _could not fucking let him see the bandages._ He only had one choice. He couldn’t believe Rick was going to make him do this. He wasn’t a little kid. He was too heavy, and he’d _definitely_ make Rick fall. 

Rick sighed. “I’m gonna take you not taking off your jacket means you’ll take the piggyback ride.” He said, turning around and crouching down. “Get on before I change my mind, kid.” He threw his hand over his shoulder, gesturing at his back with his thumb.

Morty hesitated, wishing that he’d just stayed at home. “D-Do I have to?”

“I mean, you _could_ take off the jacket. Everything w-would be a lot easier with it off.” Rick said, shrugging as he stayed crouched down on the ground. “But, y-y-you seem  _very_ dead-set on keeping it on, and y-you can’t walk much further on your own, so this is the best option you have.”

Morty knew Rick was right, and he hated it. He was so overheated and exhausted that he probably wasn’t going to make it much further. His legs were trembling under his own weight, and the world was spinning around him a little bit. And he obviously couldn’t stay here. There was no doubt in his mind that he wasn’t going to be taking off the jacket anytime soon, either. This was his only choice. 

He hesitated again before placing his hands on Rick’s shoulders, and he was immediately reminded of how sweaty the both of them were. If he wasn’t even more sweaty than Rick was, he would’ve been a little grossed out. But what right did he have to be grossed out, when he was grosser than Rick?

The old man grabbed the teen’s upper thighs and hoisted him up way quicker than Morty was expecting. As he stood from the ground, Morty gasped and reflexively wrapped his legs around Rick further, his arms wrapping around his neck.

“A-Aw, geez, y-y-you’re gonna drop me!” Morty stammered in a panic, his heart hammering inside his chest. Everything about this was stressing him out way too much. “I-I’m too heavy for this! Y-you-you-you gotta put me down!” He was clinging to Rick like his life depended on it. “This-this was a mistake!”

“Morty, _relax,”_ Rick grumbled, patting at Morty’s thigh reassuringly as he started to walk once again. “How much do you even weigh? Eighty pounds? You’re as light as a fuckin’ twig.”

“I-I don’t— I dunno...” Morty mumbled, heart pounding inside of his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was having one of those ‘don’t look down’ moments. He was way higher than he’d expected to be when he agreed to do this. _Rick was way taller than he thought, and he didn’t like it._ “H-haven’t r-r-really stood on any weight scales recently...”

He knew he’d lost weight recently, especially with his terrible eating habits. He was definitely skinny, he knew, but he couldn’t help but to continue to feel like he was too heavy for this. 

It was silent between the two of them for a while, and Morty quickly noticed that Rick was walking much faster than before. Had he really only been walking as slowly as he had because he was waiting for Morty? 

“Y-you know, I’m a lot stronger than I look, Morty.” Rick said, pulling Morty from his thoughts. “You don’t gotta be all tense.”

“S-Sorry...” Morty mumbled, forcing his body to relax slightly. He knew Rick was strong, but it was easy to forget. Rick had such a twig-like form, and he didn’t _look_ particularly strong, even if he was actually way stronger than he looked. He’d seen the elderly man do things that he didn’t think looked possible— like lift _boulders_ that were a little less than half Rick’s size. 

Sure, he struggled with doing it, but he still _did_ it. Morty could only assume it had to do with the robotic parts that Rick had modified his body with. 

Or maybe he was just secretly ripped. Morty didn’t know. 

An even longer stretch of silence went by before it was broken again; this time, by Morty. “H-hey, Rick?” He asked quietly, knowing that the older man could hear him because he was right by his ear.

Rick hummed, letting him know he could continue.

“Why did—“ He hesitated, taking in a breath of air to stall. He didn’t want to ask this because he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but he _had_ to know. “Why did you invent the bracelet? The one that r-replicates my brainwave pattern?” He looked over Rick’s shoulder, down at the metal bracelet around his wrist. Rick never told him the answer to that question, and without an explanation, he could only assume the worst. 

Rick was completely silent, almost as if he hadn’t even heard the brunette speak. Morty waited for a few minutes before he gave up on the hope he had for some sort of answer. He got nothing but silence— Rick was openly refusing to give Morty the closure he almost desperately needed. 

He sighed, slumping against Rick bonelessly. Everything was so pointless. _Morty_ was pointless. 

 

Why did he even bother asking such a pointless question?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you guys thought! <3


	4. Wash the Pain Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’d tell you the summary, but it’d spoil the whole point of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m once again apologizing for taking so long to update. I’ve been struggling to write recently because of a mixture of school and depression. Thank you for being patient, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

The adventure had been a success, and Morty ended up _not_ having another panic attack once they got back. But his jacket smelled _god-awful,_ he’d noticed. He’d practically sweat through it all the way and then continued to sweat through it even more. It was disgusting, and he wanted desperately to take it off, but he didn’t.

 

He remained in it throughout the rest of the day, even when Jerry had commented about his stench. But he _knew_ he had to wash it. He waited until it was midnight, and everyone was surely asleep before he crept back down the stairs and towards the garage.

He hesitated only a moment before opening the door, and he breathed in relief when he found it empty. Tonight was some sort of gift from the heavens because, for once, Rick wasn’t up late in the garage messing around with his inventions. He was off doing something else, leaving the garage empty for Morty to occupy with only himself.

He did _not_ want to have to make up some excuse for visiting Rick in the middle of the night, when all he _really_ wanted to do was wash his only jacket with more privacy than was typically necessary. He felt unbelievably lucky that Rick had decided to do something else tonight.

He quickly stripped the jacket off of himself and threw it into the washer with a little bit of soap and started it.

The jacket and a pair of underwear was all that he’d been wearing, so now he was only in his underwear, and goosebumps rose along his skin as the cold air of the garage surrounded him. (He found it weird how he’d been practically dying of heat stroke a few hours prior, when now he was shivering slightly in the cold).

It would take the washer and dryer _way_ less time to wash and dry a single item of clothing, rather than all of his clothes— which was all, unfortunately, dirty as well. That’s why he wasn’t wearing anything else, besides underwear.

He planned to wash the rest of it tomorrow, but right now he was just focused on his jacket— it was more important than the rest. He’d been meaning to wash all of his clothes soon. It was a task that had been lingering in the back of his mind for the longest time, but after school, he felt too tired to get up and do it, and on the weekends... he honestly just woke up feeling exhausted already. He had no motivation, nor the right amount of energy, to actually get it all done.

He guessed he had to, now, though. He didn’t have a choice when the only clean clothes he had were several pairs of underwear.

As the washer stirred to life and began washing his single item of clothing, he hopped up on top of it and sat, the vibrations feeling oddly relaxing. He let himself lean back against the wall as he stared out into the garage.

It was weird being here without Rick. He never went into the garage alone, always fearing that Rick would walk in and yell at him for messing with his stuff.

His eyes drifted down to the bandages on left arm, and he suddenly realized that they were completely exposed. If anyone else were in the garage, they would have seen it without a doubt. Good thing he was alone and Rick was doing who-knows-what in not-the-garage. He sighed heavily, grabbing the end of the bandages at the end of his wrist and running his fingers over it as he thought.

He’d changed the bandages as soon as he got home, so there weren’t any blood stains on it, but he knew what lied underneath them. Bright red skin, and half-heals scabs. It was something that he’d never thought his arm would look like.

He’d always heard about people cutting themselves through the internet, and he’d even seen a few people at his school whose arms were scarred from doing it in the past. But he’d never imagined... that he’d find himself in a dark enough place actually to do this to himself. Everything always said that he shouldn’t do it, but he still did it. He still ended up in this... _place._

He’s never been a particularly happy kid. Maybe he was when he was a toddler, but... once he’d started to grow up, he started to understand how dark the world around him was.

His mother was an heavy alcoholic, his father used manipulation to survive and feed off of people, and his sister was older than him, so she’d already realized the truth and was depressed. He learned that nobody really cares, and that nothing is fair. He learned that most of humanity (and the rest of the universe, now that he’s seen it) is complete shit.

He felt lonely, and he didn’t have any friends, and when he was hurting inside, nobody ever noticed or cared. Maybe he hid his pain too well, but sometimes he tried to make it obvious in a silent plea for help. But even when he did that, nobody noticed.

Morty laughed humorlessly at that thought. His family had never payed him much attention. They practically ignored him day in and day out, not praising him for his accomplishments or noticing when he did something wrong or when he was sad.

Maybe that’s why he immediately clung to Rick when he first arrived. He was the first person to really pay him any attention, even if it was to scold him a majority of the time. Maybe that’s why he forgave Rick each and every time he made him feel like shit. Maybe that’s why he stuck with Rick, even when his depression started to get worse and worse, and maybe that’s why he always did what Rick told him to, even if it pained him to do those things, like kill people.

Maybe that’s why he cuts... because he was a pathetic little boy that can’t handle being abandoned. Maybe he cuts because he’d been too stupid to prepare for this, because he should have expected Rick to abandon him. Rick abandons _everyone_. How could he possibly think he’d be any different from anyone else in the eyes of Rick Sanchez?

He was so, _so_ depended, and Morty suddenly felt _ashamed_ of himself. Ashamed that he was too weak to cope by himself, too weak to find a healthier escape from everything.

This was the first time he felt ashamed of what he was doing. He was ashamed that he was cutting himself like a depressed piece of shit when there were probably better ways to go about this.

Maybe it was because he knew how dumb it was of him to do such a thing, _knew_ that he was risking a lot by doing this. He was risking a stupid amount just for a spare few seconds of relief. He never wanted anyone to find out about it, and he felt like he’d go to pretty much any length to keep it a secret. It was so... _stupid_.

And he couldn’t even begin to imagine how his family would react to it. Mom already felt bad enough— she felt like a horrible mother, and if she found out Morty was doing this to himself, she’d feel even worse. Maybe she did kind of lack when it came to supporting him, but Morty knew she was dealing with her own problems and he didn’t want to burden her any more.

Dad would never be able to understand, and he’d probably only make Morty feel worse. His dad always did stuff like that due to his ignorance, and he’d probably scold Morty for being so stupid. Jerry had never been a good father. He was a coward, but he used that to his advantage. He made people feel pity for him, just so that they would give them a chance. Morty wouldn’t be able to handle it if he tried to flip the pain around and say that he was the hurt one.

He’d guilt trip Morty for hurting his family like that, say that he was so ungrateful and a terrible son. Morty knew this because he’d done it to each one of them. He always guilted Summer for not lending him money, and Beth for not kicking Rick out. He sometimes guilted Morty for getting bad grades and making the family look like a bunch of idiots.

Not only that, but if they found out, they’d surely call Summer and tell her, and she’d be so ashamed of him for falling so far. They’d always talked about trying to be better, about trying to escape the family’s horrible reputation of turning into something so broken. They both agreed to be better, to hold onto to who they were and be amazing. But Morty knew he was already broken past the point of fixing.

He wanted so desperately to be _better_ but he _wasn’t_. He was just like his family. He fell into an addiction, as differing as it was from alcohol, but it was still an addiction. Summer would be disappointed in him if she found out about this— about how he cut and took his own life for granted.

And if Rick found out... Morty didn’t know if he’d be able to handle it. He’d definitely laugh or call him stupid. It would completely _crush_ the teen if that happened. He was a wildcard— you never knew what he would do, and most the time it ended badly when you tried to take a risk with him. It was always like walking along the edge of a thin blade— it’s impossible to know which side you’ll fall into, and even then, both sides are usually bad.

Morty didn’t know if he’d use it to hurt him more, or if he’d pretend it didn’t exist and carry on as normal. Either way, Morty wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Rick ignoring the existence of his cuts would be like the emotional equivalent to being stabbed in the heart. It would show even further how much he didn’t care about him. It would prove just how little Rick cared for him, while Morty cared so much about him. It would mean that all the good times they shared together were fake, and had only meant something to Morty.

And if he made fun of him or laughed, it would be almost worse. It would mean that Rick was gladly using every tool at his espousal to use at Morty’s expense. It would feel like Rick was torturing him because, verbally, he would be tormenting him about it.

Morty had seen Rick torment people with his words, and it was always like he knew exactly what to say to hit them in their most sensitive areas. He always knew exactly what to say to break someone. It was like he was able to jump ahead to the future for a moment to know what he needed to say to really get to them.

 

He’d used it on Morty plenty of times, like when he fucked up on missions and he really wanted to tare into him for it. It’s like the man was able to spit verbal acid, burning straight through the thick skin that Morty struggled to build up. He could handle it when Rick yelled at him for screwing up, or for being stupid about something, but with the cutting?

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through Rick’s venomous lectures when his habit of cutting was at the center of it all. He’d surely break into a billion pieces and he’d never be able to to recover.

And the worst part about it was that Morty didn’t know what he’d do if such a situation arose. He didn’t know if he’d... he’d run away, or hurt himself more, or... or if he’d kill—

 

_Stop_.

 

No, he wouldn’t do that because of some bullshit Rick said. _He wouldn’t let himself._ He’d just... move on. Forget Rick existed, even though he really didn’t want to do that. It would probably put him in an even worse place than normal for a while, but he’d probably get through it...

_Probably_.

The teen shuttered in the emptiness of the garage, cradling his arm to his chest as small tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He felt so trapped within himself— like he couldn’t express a single emotion or thought without knocking down a long row of dominos.

He felt like he was entirely alone, and he couldn’t escape from that feeling. He couldn’t _save_ himself from this nightmare.

He pressed his thumb into one of the more recent cuts under the bandages, feeling the sting of pain resurface in that area. He could see a few spots of blood begin to seep through the pristine white bandages, and he sighed to himself, letting his head fall back and hit the wall behind him.

Sometimes he liked how the blood from the cuts looked when it leaked down the side of his arm and dripped onto the floor. Sometimes the sight was relaxing, in a weird sort of way— his blood was another reminder that he was human. And the injuries themselves reminded him that he wasn’t flawless, and that he can bleed like everyone else can.

His humanity was both what tortured him and kept him sane— it was both his downfall and his greatest strength.

When he wasn’t cutting, he felt so distant from the world, like he was looking at it through the screen of a small, black and white TV. When he cut, he didn’t have to feel that way. The pain pulled him back through the screen and placed him back inside reality, and color filled the world. Mostly with red, even though he knew that wasn’t accurate. But it was better than no color at all, though.

He just wished he could hold on to that reality and _stay_ but he knew he couldn’t. He was so broken down inside that it would probably take ages to heal himself. He was ashamed that the only solution he could find to help him was to hurt himself further.

He was so dumb to not know how to help himself. He was so useless.

The garage door suddenly slammed open, and Morty gasped, hiding his bandaged arm behind himself. Rick was standing at the door, and as the two of them made eye contact, Morty felt like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

“Mo-bBBUURRRPp-rty?” He questioned, looking the the barely-dressed teen in confusion. He was holding his flask in his hand, but he slowly lowered it the more confused he got. He was staring at Morty like he just couldn’t understand why he was there.

Morty suddenly felt violated— he was literally sitting on top of the washing machine... in his underwear... alone in the garage. He flushed in embarrassment. “S-Sorry, I was just doing laundry...” He mumbled, unable to look Rick in the eye.

Rick was silent for an extra few seconds before he closed the garage door behind him and looked at Morty again. “So, you’re unwilling to take your jacket off when you’re _literally_ inside of a volcano, but you’re fine with taking it— _and_ your shirt and pants off— in a cold garage in the middle of the n-bBUUrp-ight? What, are you like jacking off or something?” His voice had a slight slur to it, and Morty was immediately alerted that Rick was kind of drunk.

Morty flushed even more at Rick’s very inaccurate implication, and opened his mouth to explain, but he suddenly realized that he didn’t _have_ an explanation. So, he just ended up stuttering a bunch. “No! _No!_ I—I’m— you see, I-I— _haha,_ you know, I should just be getting to b-bed,” He said, throwing his thumb over his shoulder awkwardly and hopping down off of the washing machine. “Sorry for g-getting in your way...”

He tried to maneuver around Rick without him seeing his bandaged arm, but just as he got around him, a hand latched around _that_ arm, just above his elbow. He flinched as Rick pulled him back, and he could feel a panic surge through him. He tried to yank his arm away, but Rick’s grip was steady.

The old man yanked him back, spinning the brunette around. But he wasn’t looking at his face, he was looking at the bandages. “So, t-this is why you wouldn’t take your jacket off? You’re hiding an injury?” He shoved his flask into one of the inner pockets of his lab coat, all evidence of his drunkenness vanishing in the blink of an eye. Rick was good at sobering up, but only when he wasn’t completely black-out drunk.

Morty’s breathing started to speed up against his will, and for some reason it felt like he wasn’t getting enough air. He was so _stupid._ Who just fucking sits on the washing machine in the middle of the night in their underwear?!

Rick didn’t seem to notice Morty’s rapid breathing, but the teen knew he had to have. “What t-the fuck happened, Morty? I need to take a look at this.”

“N-no!” Morty yelped, once again trying to pull his arm away from Rick’s iron grip. “I-it’s fine! _I’m_ fine!” It was a lie, and he knew it, but he wanted so desperately for it to be _true._

Rick frowned at him. “Morty, what’s wrong with you? Just let me take a look.”

“Y-y-you can’t!” Morty protested, and he felt tears forming in his eyes. _He couldn’t let Rick see._

Without thinking, he used his other arm to shove Rick away with all the force he could muster. Rick grunted from the force of it, finally releasing Morty’s arm.

 

Morty gasped, throwing his hand over his mouth as he stared at Rick with wide, panicked eyes. _He couldn’t believe he just did that._ “I-I’m sorry!” He stammered.

 

He’d never shoved Rick before. Not unless he was pushing him out of enemy fire. _He really couldn’t believe he’d just done that. This wasn’t okay. He just fucked up so bad._

Rick’s face morphed from concerned to livid in under a second, and he started walking back towards the panicking teen, a dark glint in his eyes.

Morty backed away from him until his back hit the door, and he scrambled to grab the handle, but the door was locked, and his hands were sweaty, and Rick was _right fucking there_ and before he knew it, Rick had already managed to cage him in, one hand pressed against the door to prevent him from opening it, and that’s when the tears finally started to slip down his face.

Rick ignored the tears, reaching down to once again grab his arm and pull the teen away from the door. He wasn’t careful— in fact, the action was harsh; uncaring and almost spiteful. He grabbed the end of the bandage and began quickly unraveling it. His brow was furrowed in anger, and his movements were stiff and coordinated.

Morty continued to cry silently, the only sound between them being the soft gasps for air that the teen struggled to suck in. He couldn’t believe he’d shoved Rick. He was so _stupid, useless, horrible._ He hated himself, he hated everything about himself.

As Rick finally managed to unravel all of the gauze, he turned Morty’s arm over, looking at the underside of his wrist. For a moment, he didn’t seem to have a reaction to the sight. Some of them were still fresh, bright red and gaping open, and others were older and scabbed over. One of them had even started to turn into a scar. But after a few moments, Rick seemed to realize exactly how he’d gotten these injuries.

His grip loosened, and Morty immediately used that to his advantage and yanked his arm away, cradling it to his chest as he continued to breath heavily in an attempt to calm down. He couldn’t get the tears to stop, but he was trying _so hard._

Rick’s mouth was gaping open slightly, and he was staring at Morty with wide, confused eyes. He managed to finally suck in a breath after a few moments, and he collected himself enough to speak. “Morty—“

“—Shut up!” Morty snapped before he could continue. “Just shut up! D-don’t say anything! I-I don’t— I don’t want to hear it!” He couldn’t handle anything Rick was going to say right now. _He was going to yell at him, scold him, make fun of him, hurt him._

Rick furrowed his brow in frustration again, and he reached out to him.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Morty yelled at him, taking a step back and swatting his hand away. He didn’t want Rick anywhere _near_ him. He didn’t want to hear him talk, don’t want him to touch him, didn’t want to even _look_ at him. “I-I can’t— this— I can’t do this! J-just leave me alone!”

Morty didn’t miss the small flinch that came from Rick, and such a sight shocked him to his core. He felt an overwhelming need to run, but he didn’t know where. Both exits of the garage were closed, and he was sure if he took the time to try and unlock the door behind him, Rick would only stop him again.

 

“Morty, just calm down.” Rick said, taking a cautious step towards him and holding his hands out in front of him as if the brunette were a frightened animal, and Morty _hated it_. It was so patronizing, like his feelings were only an _overreaction_ in Rick’s eyes.

But he _wasn’t_ overreacting— his feelings were valid, right? Rick was the one who backed him into a corner, Rick was the one who ripped his emotions from the corner of his heart where he’d buried them, _Rick_ was the one who had caused a majority of those emotions to form in the first place— he had every right to act this way, and he _hated_ how Rick was treating him like a rabid animal.

Part of why he cut was so that he could remind himself that he really was _human_ but Rick was making that vision blurry inside his head, making him feel worthless and horrible all over again.

He took another step back. “Rick, _please_ ,” He sobbed frantically, shaking like a leaf. “I-I just want to be left alone...”

Rick took a few more steps towards him. “It’s kinda too late for that now, don’t you think?” He said, a slight frown forming on his face. “I-I’m not gonna hurt ya, Morty, but we have to talk about this.”

“No!” He protested, sliding down the door until he was on the floor— Rick towered over him like a giant. _Morty hated it. He wanted him to leave._ “I-I was doing fine on my own! I-I don’t need this! I don’t need anyone! I don’t need _you!”_ He hid his face in his arms, being careful of the now exposed cuts.

He felt Rick place a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, unfolding himself slightly to look up at him. He was crouched down in front of him, that same frown plastered on his face.

Morty looked away, hating how Rick’s hand was on him, hating that he knew about the cuts, hating that Rick was seeing him in such a poor state when he swore to himself he wouldn’t let anyone find out how broken he really was inside. He hated that Rick knew about the cuts more than anything because he wanted to be strong enough to stand alone. He didn’t want someone to fall on because he knew that nobody was really there for him.

He didn’t want to use Rick as some sort of crutch because he knew that in the long run he’d get bored and abandon him once again. After everything they’d been through, Rick _replaced_ him. With a fucking _bracelet_ no less. He wasn’t even replaced by another Morty. He was replaced by a _chunk of metal._ And it _hurt so much._

He didn’t want Rick to hold him up when he knew he’d just drop him like he never meant anything. Not again.

If Rick actually cared, he would have—

He would have...

Morty’s thoughts cut off at that moment. He didn’t know what Rick would do if he _actually_ cared, and that’s why he couldn’t come up with anything. It’s been so long since anyone actually cared about him, and he could just barely remember what it felt like to be loved.

“Morty, why h-have you been doing this to yourself?” Rick asked, and the question sounded so innocent. _As if he couldn’t figure it out himself._

Morty shrugged his shoulder until he could get Rick to release him, and he scooted away from him on the floor. Earlier, Rick didn’t answer the question Morty asked him, so it’s only fair that Morty doesn’t answer either, right? Why should Morty answer him when Rick couldn’t even do that for him in return?

He shook his head as tears continued to stream down his face, and he still couldn’t seem to breathe properly, but he was calming down somewhat. He didn’t want to talk to Rick anymore, so he wouldn’t. He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. He got to decide what he wanted for once. He _deserved_ to decide.

Rick sighed. “C-c’mon, Morty, you can’t do this.”

Morty frantically wiped at his eyes with his hands, and the two of them sat in silence for a while before the teen suddenly pushed himself to stand, determination blazing in his eyes. Rick stood with him, looking almost alarmed by Morty’s actions.

“ _Why_ have you been hurting yourself, Morty?” He asked again, reaching forward to grab him again.

Morty’s hands were behind his back, and in one swift motion, he unlocked the door and pushed. He quickly maneuvered around the door, only letting it slip open to a strictly necessary amount.

“Morty—“ Rick called, but Morty slammed the door behind him before he could hear anything more.

He locked it for good measure and backed away like he was afraid Rick was going to kick the door in. Immediately after, he saw the doorknob jingle a little bit as Rick tried to follow him, and for some reason it made his breath catch in his throat, and he felt like he was choking on it.

He threw his hand over his mouth, holding back a sob that threatened to rip from his throat. He stared at the door for a moment, eyes wide and filled with tears.

He knew Rick would be able to unlock it easily, but he didn’t care. At least locking it now gave him a head start. All he could hope for was that Rick would leave him alone. The chance of that happening was once again 50/50. He was still walking along that blade, teetering from side to side.

He quickly made his way up the stairs and to his room, where he laid on his bed, curled up into a tight ball. He struggled to breathe, and he buried his face into his pillow, horrified and ashamed of everything that had happened tonight.

He was vulnerable and exposed, and still _alone_. He didn’t know how to handle Rick’s reaction. He couldn’t even tell if it had been a good or a bad thing— couldn’t tell if it made him feel better or worse, because he was already so numb on the inside that he couldn’t decipher feeling that he knew should be easy, like ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ It wasn’t anything like what he was expecting— it sounded almost like Rick _cared_ but Morty knew that had to be impossible.

He had to remind himself that Rick had _abandoned_ and _traumatized_ him; he’d done so without even batting an eye. He ruined Morty, made him _need_ him, and then replaced him with a stupid chunk of metal. He was completely shattered on the inside, and half of it was Rick’s fault. He couldn’t let him bring him down like that again— he was already too low as it was.

He didn’t want to lose any more himself, and he’d do everything he could to preserve who he was. Even if most of him is already gone forever. He couldn’t let Rick ruin him any further.

Eventually, his breath managed to even out, and he was swept into a deep sleep.

His dreams were haunted by a faceless monster.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Morty, wait! Come back here!”

Rick panicked slightly as Morty fled, but as he tried to open the door and follow him, he realized that the little shit had already managed to lock the door. Damn, Rick wasn’t used to Morty being this slick. When he first met him, he’d been clumsy and oblivious. But over the years on adventures, the teen had become quick on his feet, and became a fast problem solver when in stressful situations.

He could still be clumsy _sometimes_ but not nearly as often as before. And Rick sometimes couldn’t keep up with how much he’d improved past that. It surprised him each time Morty showed his improved skills.

He was proud, yes, but not when he used those skills against _him._ They were supposed to be a _team_. But Rick couldn’t really blame him this time for running. Rick had been avoiding the kid so much that he hadn’t even fully _noticed_ that something was terribly wrong with him. And anything he _did_ notice, he ignored.

_“Fuck,”_ He cursed, raising his fist like he was going to slam it into the door, but he didn’t. He spat out a slew of curses in multiple alien languages (and a few in Spanish) before he turned around and leaned against the door, sliding down it much like Morty had a few minutes ago.

His arms were limp at his sides and his legs were sprawled out on the floor in front of him. He felt deflated and empty. He couldn’t believe Morty was cutting himself, and he _knew_ that it was all his fault. He’d done this to Morty.

Rick had his reasons— _good_ reasons— for inventing that damned bracelet. He had to stop spending so much time with the kid because he was beginning to tread into dangerous territory. He started to grow... _attached_. And not in the normal ‘grandfather loves his grandson’ kind of way. It was something that shouldn’t even be _considered_. Something that was fundamentally wrong in every way, and Rick _hated_ himself because of it.

He didn’t know how to handle those thoughts— he’d never been good with emotions, and it was especially complicated because he couldn’t drown them out completely with alcohol. It just wasn’t strong enough to numb that part of his mind no matter how much he drank. Hell, he’d almost drank himself into a coma trying to forget. And he probably would have actually ended up in a coma if he didn’t black out and then pass out before he could drink any more.

He reached his hands up to rub at his temples in frustration, a loud sigh escaping past his lips.

Maybe he needed to destroy the stupid bracelet.

Just because he hadn’t been spending time with Morty recently, it didn’t mean it eradicated his feelings towards him. In fact, he felt like it only got _worse_. He missed Morty so fucking much that it _physically_ hurt him. The kid was literally all he could think about all the time, and it was even starting to affect his work because he missed him.

He missed his smile and his laugh, and he always somehow got Rick in a way that nobody else could. Rick always pretended Morty was annoying him, but really, he valued his company and companionship a lot— he enjoyed it far too much for it to be appropriate, honestly.

He’d been trying to _protect_ Morty from himself. He’d completely shut him out unless it was strictly necessary to interact. He didn’t look at him, he didn’t pay attention him, he stopped taking him on so many adventures and stopped pulling him out of school.

It killed him a little inside each time he was with the kid and he had to ignore him. He _hated_ avoiding him more than anything. But he kept telling himself that he was doing it _for_ Morty— that he was protecting the brunette from him. That, with the distance, Morty would find other people he could be friends with. He told himself that with so much distance between them, he’d stop feeling the way he did towards the kid.

...But if he’d known it would hurt Morty this much, he wouldn’t have done it. He hadn’t thought about how it would make Morty feel— he hadn’t contemplated whether or not cutting him out of his life would hurt Morty so much.

And if he hadn’t shut him out, maybe he would have noticed the signs sooner. Maybe he could have noticed that Morty had been hurting inside. Rick knew he would have noticed the jacket sooner. When he allowed himself to, he could notice almost anything about the kid. But he’d been ignoring him and avoiding him and trying so hard not to think about him.

He should have seen it sooner. He _could have_ seen it sooner if he hadn’t been a dumbass.

He ran his hands through his hair, pulling harshly at the strands. What if Morty thought it was his own fault that Rick cut him out? What if he thought he did something wrong?

God, _what had he done?_ Rick pulled harder at his hair, feeling tears well up in his eyes. _What had he done?_ He’d fucked up so bad that Morty was _cutting_ himself.

Shakily, he reached for his flask from inside his lab coat and unscrewed the cap, tipping it back.

Nothing came out. He pulled it back, his hands trembling horribly. It was empty. He’d come into the garage to refill it. His mouth watered; he needed something— _anything_ with alcohol in it.

He quickly stood from his spot on the floor and threw open one of the cabinets above his workbench. He grabbed a bottle of scotch and popped the cap off, taking a long swig straight from the bottle.

As the burning liquid settled in his stomach, he sank down into his swivel chair, trying to hold back his tears.

How had he not noticed the state Morty was in? Now that he was looking back on it, he’d been acting so differently these past few months. He was quieter, and more closed off— and not just from Rick, it was from everyone. He seemed tired all the time, constantly falling asleep wherever he was.

And Rick had _noticed_ Morty had been losing weight, but he didn’t ever think about _why_. He didn’t _ask_ himself _why_ Morty looked so much thinner than normal. He was such a horrible grandpa. He was such an _idiots._

He took another long swig from the bottle, taking in at least four gulps before he pulled back again. He could already feel it starting to effect him, and his thoughts slowly fell into a haze— but the pain he felt was still ever-present.

He missed Morty so much. He wanted to hold him in his arms and make all of his pain go away. He wanted to tell him how much he loved him, and he wanted to k—

Rick drank more from the bottle. He’d surely be wasted by the end of the night, but he didn’t care. He needed to block everything out right now. He was helpless, and he hated feeling like that.

He had to fix this.

 

He just had to figure out how.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed! <3


	5. Take My Breath Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ThEy tALk a bIT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyy, so um first off let me apologize for the hiatus. Been a while haha. (Most if my fics go through a lot of hiatuses). 
> 
> But I don’t really have a good excuse for this one because I’ve already finished like five more chapters after this one and still haven’t updated. I just really haven’t been proud of this specific chapter and I’ve re-written multiple parts of it like so many times trying to get it just right. It kind of stalled everything. Plus, I’ve been dealing with school. And marching band... well, it currently controls my life... so I haven’t had much time to edit and write. I’m really sorry guys. 
> 
> Once again, I’m not super proud of this chapter. I don’t know why but it feels off to me? But I’ve “fixed” it so many times that at this point I think it’s as good as it’s gonna get. Regardless, I hope it doesn’t disappoint!

Morty hadn’t left his room since he woke up. Hell, he didn’t even move from his bed.

He occasionally glanced at his digital alarm clock and he watched as the minutes ticked by. The day felt slow and endless.

The first time he’d looked at it was when he first woke up.

 9:55AM. 

And now it was 3:30PM. 

He hadn’t moved from his bed since then, only shifting around uncomfortably and trying to find a position that wouldn’t aggravate the cuts on his arm. He hadn’t needed to use the bathroom today, which... he knew we because he didn’t eat or drink much of anything. But it was still odd. 

He let his thoughts run dangerously wild inside his head. He felt worthless. He felt like he meant absolutely nothing, so what was the point? He felt an uncomfortable pressure form in his chest at the realization that he wanted to stop existing. Maybe not through death, even though that option seemed less horrifying and more welcoming with each passing day. But... what he really wanted was to just... not exist. Not in death. Not in life. 

If he hadn’t ever existed, there wouldn’t have ever been any pain, right? And there wouldn’t have been any happiness to miss out on. Because it wouldn’t exist. He entertained the idea for a while, wondering how everyone else’s lives would fair if he’d never been born.

His parents, undoubtedly, would probably be under less of a strain. He knew this because if Morty had never existed, they wouldn’t have needed to bother with taking care of a second child. All they would have was Summer, who was independent and old enough to be on her own— hell, she wasn’t even here anymore. She was in college living her own life. 

And speaking of Summer, she’d probably have been better off as well. She wouldn’t have had to worry about him, or stand up to protect him all those times when bullies used to get the best of him. And back when she was in high school, Morty’s very _existence_ wouldn’t have been popularity-repellent against her. Both of them knew that Morty had held her back from shining like a star in her teenage years, even if it was unintentional. 

People hated him. The reasons why were kind of unclear, even though Morty was sure he could name a bunch if he allowed himself to give it some thought. But simply because Morty was related to Summer (even though everyone loved her), people tried to avoid being her friend. It was as if his ‘cooties’ could be on her, and nobody else wanted to get ‘infected.’ If Morty hadn’t existed, Summer wouldn’t have had to deal being blocked off like that. 

And Rick? The man would either still be in space, or he’d be with a far better Morty. The only reason he was with him now was because he was his original. His actual, honest-to-god Morty from the exact same dimension. Their original home was C-137. That’s the only reason Rick chose him, and Morty was pretty sure at this point that the only reason he was still here was because he was kind of stuck with him.

Even if he didn’t need Morty as much anymore because of the bracelet, he still needed an extra set of hands from time to time. And it’s not like he can get another, much better Morty, unless the brunette suddenly died. Or, in this case, never existed. 

And it wasn’t like Rick could just murder Morty or leave him to rot on some random planet out in space. Well... technically, he had the power to do such a thing. If he wanted to, Morty would literally have no way to stop him. But even a man like Rick Sanchez had a limit when it came to this sort of thing. Everyone has a line drawn in the sand somewhere. 

Rick might be cruel and mean and careless, but he wasn’t evil. If Morty really thought about it, Rick wasn’t evil or good, honestly. He was pretty neutral, and that’s why he knew the man wouldn’t just... leave him to die somewhere. 

He might not really care, but he doesn’t just let people die if he can save them, especially if that person is useful to him. And Morty wasn’t as useful as before, but it would be inconvenient for him to get a new Morty, and he still uses him as a second set of hands from time to time. 

He sighed, rolling over on his side. His heart was beating anxiously in his chest, and he wanted to _move_ , but he couldn’t leave his room until night came along because his jacket was still in the washing machine, and he also didn’t want to run into Rick. He _dreaded_ the next him he and Rick would speak— fears of how he’d make fun of him drifted through his mind, and he couldn’t stop the anxiety that filled his chest at how horrible it would make him feel.

He knew Rick would be cruel enough to taunt him over this. He was so sure that it hurt. 

_“Y-you fucking cut yourself, Morty? Y-you’re such a— that’s such a pussy move! Stop being over dramatic, y-you bURRaby.”_

He rolled over again and stared at the ceiling with an empty gaze, trying to think of happier things— (even though he could hardly remember what “happy” felt like)— trying his hardest not to make himself suffer more than he already felt like he was. 

His stomach was twisting into all sorts of uncomfortable knots, but he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or hunger. He felt so powerless right now. Not eating had caused any muscle he’d gained from adventures to shrink away, and right now he was too scared to even consider going down to the garage. There was something fundamentally wrong with him. He’d always known this, but these days he found more evidence of it. 

He wanted to be different. He _promised_ himself he’d be different. He’d promised his own mother. But how could he be different when he was hardly a person anymore? 

He couldn’t really _feel_ anything. At least, most of the time he couldn’t. When he cut, he was able to feel. And he could feel dread when he thought of certain things— like running into Rick after what he saw last night. But it was more like the echo of a feeling that he knew he should have rather than an actual feeling. Or maybe he was feeling something, but it was so little of an amount that it was like an echo. 

All he knew was that he didn’t like it. The thought of seeing Rick caused panic, but only because he knew it would make things harder for him. He knew Rick giving him a hard time would inflict some kind of pain, and would confirm how stupid he felt like he was. 

He sighed heavily, feeling how his lungs expanded and deflated in his chest. He was so tired. His entire body felt exhausted, and everything was sore. He was pretty sure his eyes had bags under them, too, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he checked a mirror. He’d do that tonight, too, after he grabbed that stupid jacket and started up an actual load of laundry. 

He’d tried to nap throughout the day, but he found himself unable to fall asleep. He couldn’t turn his thoughts off no matter how hard he tried. His heart would start racing with anxiety each time he closed his eyes, and flashes of Rick’s angered face after he’d shoved him passed through his mind. And he couldn’t help but conjure words inside his head, telling him exactly what Rick would say to him once he got the chance. 

_“W-w-what, are you doing it for attention, you little shit? Geez, get over yourself! Nobody cares! W-who would wanna pay attention to some dumbass like you?”_

Every moment he spent alone in his room felt like torture. He desperately wanted to talk to someone, to _confide_ in someone that he trusts. But he didn’t and couldn’t trust anyone. It was hard to when the only person he only ever _really_ trusted ended up abandoning him. 

He’d developed a great trust for Rick only months after he’d met him. It wasn’t by choice, because Rick was rash, insensitive, unpredictable, and an asshole. But on adventures, they had to be a team, and Rick knew it, too. They had to trust each other in order to survive.

And with that requirement on adventures, and Rick unfailingly keeping him alive through all those years, the trust he felt in Rick had bled out into every other aspect of his life. And even when Rick was often closed off, Morty’d felt, for a while, that maybe Rick trusted him like that, too. At least on some level. 

But Morty couldn’t trust Rick anymore. He was sure now that he was wrong about Rick trusting him, because it was obvious he didn’t care. And Morty couldn’t trust someone who didn’t care about him. 

If Rick didn’t care, who knows what could happen? Now that he knew about the cuts, Morty was afraid that, because Rick didn’t care, he’d aggravate the pain he felt by being insensitive and saying things that would hurt Morty to hear. He couldn’t trust Rick not to do that to him. 

His attention was pulled from his thoughts when someone knocked on his door softly, his mind suddenly racing with how quickly the air shifted in the room. Things had been perfectly still for _hours_ , without a single shift besides the subtle squeak of his bed springs when he moved and the occasional sound of someone downstairs. He’d heard more sounds downstairs during the past ten or so minutes, but he hadn’t given it much thought until now. 

He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the sudden shift in pace, even if it was in the one direction he didn’t want it to go in— _socializing_. Because someone was knocking as his door, he knew he’d have to answer unless he wanted the other person to barge in. 

He pulled his blanket around his shoulders in order to hide his arm, not wanting whoever it was at the door to see it. The last thing he needed was more people to know about it. He slowly stood from the bed for the first time that day, feeling a little lightheaded from the sudden shift in balance. His legs shook slightly underneath him, which wasn’t new in the slightest— fatigue was common when he went the entire day without eating. 

He’d probably have to shove a few nutrient-rich granola bars down his throat later, too, to try and stave off the effects of not eating properly. It wasn’t the best diet, but at least he was eating _something_. He really had to get his eating back on track, with full, healthy meals and stuff. But... he didn’t have the energy to plan it all out today. Maybe he’d work on it tomorrow. 

Probably not.

_Probably never._

It was his mom on the other side of the door, coming to check on him, right? She was the only one who would check on him anymore. Summer probably would have, if she was still here. But she wasn’t. Dad was just... too dense to really notice anything was off, even when everything was so obviously wrong. And there was no way it was Rick. The man didn’t “check” on people. And if he wanted to talk to Morty, he wouldn’t have knocked. He would’ve just barged right in like he owned the place. 

So through the process of elimination, Mom was the only person it could be. He just had to tell her he was fine, and she’d leave. She was never good at confronting people, and if Morty lied to her at point blank, she usually took it and didn’t ask any more questions. 

She cared, sometimes. Only when Morty’s suffering became so noticeable that it couldn’t be ignored. She was his mom, but only to the extent that she had given birth to him and checked to make sure he was alright from time to time. In the past, it had been more than that... but these days it was different. 

Nonetheless, he appreciated the gesture in ways that he could never express to her, because it showed that someone at least sort of cared about his wellbeing. He loved his mom unconditionally because of it. 

He stood in front of the door, mentally preparing everything that he was going to say. He thought about multiple scenarios that could happen and ways that he could respond to them in order to get her to leave— in order to convince her he was perfectly fine. He couldn’t remember if today was a school day, but hopefully it wasn’t, because he would need to come up with some excuse for not attending today. 

He finally reached for the nob and pulled the door open slightly, looking up in preparation for when he met his mother’s worried eyes. 

But instead of seeing his mother nervously smiling down at him in the doorway, he was met with the sight of _Rick_ staring down at him with a hard frown etched onto his mouth. He gasped loudly and immediately slammed the door closed again, his heart suddenly beating wildly in his chest from pure shock. The sound of the door slamming resonated through his room loudly, echoing harshly in his ears. _Fuck. No no no no, why did he have to come here?_ He wasn’t prepared for this! 

Why the fuck was Rick even here?! He had no reason to be here unless he had some stupid adventure planned! But that wasn’t likely, because they’d had an adventure yesterday. And ever since he created that insufferable bracelet, they never had two adventures in a row! It was just unnecessary! 

That could only mean that Rick was here because of what he witnessed last night. And Morty immediately concluded that he didn’t want any part of it. He wouldn’t put up with it. He wouldn’t even hear about it. 

But Rick was a very stubborn man. He always got what he wanted eventually, so he couldn’t just tell Rick to fuck off, and it’d be over. The only option he had in the situation was to somehow _escape_. The main problem he faced now was _how in the world_ he was supposed to escape when the only exit was being guarded by the very man he was trying to escape from. 

He looked around frantically, feeling like his heart and mind were both working in overtime as he tried to figure it out. _This couldn’t seriously be happening._

“Morty?” Rick called through the door, his voice muffled. Morty felt goosebumps rise along his skin as paranoia washed over him. He felt like Rick could already see him, even through the door that was separating them. “I-I just want to talk...”

Morty’s eyes landed on the wall across his room, sunlight catching his attention as a sudden realization slammed into him full force.

_The window._

Of course! That was perfect for escaping! (And literally his only other option!)

Morty bolted across the room, quickly unlatching the window and pushing it up with a small grunt of effort. The exertion made him pant heavily, even if it was barely anything, but he kept moving. He had to get out of here before Rick realized what he was up to and came inside. Can’t teleport to him if he didn’t know where he was, right? 

“I-I’m gonna come inside.” He heard Rick announce as if he’d read his thoughts, and he quickly scrambled to climb out, throwing his blanket to the floor in a frenzied panic. _Why did his thoughts have to jinks fucking everything?!_

Rick slowly pushed the door open, an audible creek sounding through the room, and he was met with the sight of his grandson halfway out the fucking window. He ran across the room with a speed that he only ever showed when there was actual danger to worry about, and he grabbed the teen roughly by his unsliced arm, pulling him back inside with a harshness that wasn’t _all_ strictly necessary. 

Morty yelped in surprise, struggling against Rick as he was pulled back. But then he was dramatically tripping over his own feet like a dunce, nearly falling over himself like the clumsy little kid he was. He gasped as the world shifted around him from being off-balance, but then he felt strong arms slip under his arms and wrap around his chest firmly, keeping him upright. Rick then took a few steps away from the window, dragging Morty with him insistently. 

“What the hell, Morty?!” Rick growled out through clenched teeth, still holding the teen firmly from behind. Morty could feel his chest vibrate with the words. 

The teen panted heavily. His heart beating rapidly in his chest as the adrenaline from the situation slowly started to ware off. He could feel Rick’s heart beating frantically against his back, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He went completely limp in Rick’s hold, trying to calm himself down. His breath had a slight wheeze to it that he tried to pretend wasn’t there. 

“You were seriously gonna jump out of your _two-story_ bedroom window to _avoid_ me?!” Rick continued to scold him. He was still holding onto him firmly, like he was afraid Morty would try to dive out the window again if he let go, even though the teen had obviously become somewhat submissive. He wasn’t even struggling right now. 

“I-I-I wasn’t gonna jump out the window, Rick! I-I’m not fucking suicidal!” Morty growled back, even though he knew that was a poor choice of words considering what Rick had discovered last night. And the truth was, that at this point, he didn’t even really care if he lived or died. Hell, he just went through a whole hour or two thinking about how much better things would’ve been if he hadn’t _existed_ in the first place. 

And it wasn’t like he was actively trying to kill himself anyway, but if he died, then _oh well?_ He scrunched his face up at that thought. He really was that pathetic, wasn’t he? To be so depressed that he didn’t even care if he died?

He suddenly felt overwhelmed with Rick so close to him— his back was right against the older man, and Rick’s arms were wrapped around his bare chest, and they were awkwardly standing smack dab in the middle of his room. It was making him feel awkward and claustrophobic. He grunted, wiggling uncomfortably against Rick’s hold on him. He twisted himself around until he could plant his hands firmly on Rick’s chest and push the older man away, effectively distancing the two of them. 

Rick narrowed his eyes at him like he was offended. 

“I-I was just climbing onto the roof! There’s a _difference!_ I-I-I’m not _stupid!”_ He defended himself even though climbing into the roof was (arguably) a stupid idea. He just didn’t want to admit it to Rick. He was humiliated enough as it was right now. 

The two of them stared at each other, Rick’s hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do, and Morty’s chest heaving as he tried to calm his frayed nerves. His legs were trembling slightly, and he was uncertain if it was due to fatigue or fear. 

He’d do just about anything to get Rick out of his room. He just had to figure out what he exactly wanted from him, and try to fulfill that want without exposing himself too much. 

“We have to talk.” Rick stated firmly, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. It wasn’t a question. He let his hands go lax at his sides, tension draining slightly from his form. 

Morty crossed his arms over his bare chest, as if he could hide it from Rick. He felt so exposed right now. He was opened up and raw, standing in front of Rick with his insecurities and vulnerabilities exposed and on display. _Again_. Rick didn’t know everything, but he knew far more than Morty was comfortable with. Being... _exposed_ like this in front of the man was becoming a common event as of recently. “T-there’s nothing to talk about, Rick.” He said coldly, hoping that he’d just drop it. 

He doubted Rick actually would, but that didn’t completely squash the hope that he might. He’d seen Rick drop things like this on very rare occasions, so there still might be a chance. 

Rick sighed, opening his lab coat and reaching into one of the inner pockets. He dug around inside of it for a moment before pulling out a neatly folded article of clothing. Morty immediately recognized it as his jacket, and his eyes widened slightly. How had he not seen the mass of it through his lab coat? Surely he would have seen something like that bulging from the outline of his coat? Or had he just been too distracted to notice? 

“I brought this for you.” Rick said, waving it in front of his face like Morty was a dog and the jacket was a piece of meat. 

Morty frowned at him, his eyes trailing after his jacket for a moment before he looked back up at Rick. He was unwilling to accept the peace offering, even if Rick had been kind enough to both finish washing _and_ folding it for him. “I-I don’t want it...” He muttered bitterly. “And I don’t want to talk to you, so just _leave_ already.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. 

Rick’s expression seemed to sour at Morty’s choice of words, and he lowered the jacket, holding it loosely at his side. “You’re gonna be real complicated about this, aren’t you, kid?”

Morty didn’t say anything. He only looked past him, focusing his eyes on some random spot on the wall behind the older man. He felt even more exposed and vulnerable than before, knowing that Rick knew about his cuts, about his jacket (which was his only other safety net other than the cutting itself), and about how he was broken in some way. 

It was humiliating to the brunette, and he didn’t want to talk to Rick about it. It was literally that last thing in the universe that he wanted to do. Rick was the _last_ person he wanted to confide in. Morty used to trust the older man with his life— he used to trust him with everything; but, then he invented the bracelet, and everything fell apart. 

Morty had been so isolated and lonely since Rick made the bracelet... he just couldn’t trust him anymore. Rick _left_ him. 

He felt entirely exhausted from this whole conversation already— his social battery was completely drained, and he just wanted to be alone again. (Morty internally scolded himself for wanting to be alone. It was torture to be alone, and it was torture with people. It didn’t matter if he was alone. It was just less effort to be by himself.)

Rick no longer enjoyed his company, or humored Morty with his own. Rick hardly took him on adventures, only using him like a _tool_ when he needed it. He wasn’t Morty’s friend, he wasn’t someone the teen could _trust_. He _ditched_ him emotionally, and left him to rot all by himself. 

Why would he _ever_ want to answer to the man that was part of why his life was so fucked up? He made Morty love him— he made Morty _need_ him. And after everything, he _tossed him away_ like he was a _broken toy._

Rick let out a frustrated growl to himself, clutching the jacket tightly in his hand as he stomped over to Morty’s closet and began rummaging through it. 

Morty blinked a few times as he watched him, trying to comprehend what the hell he was trying to do. “W-What the hell are you doing?!” He growled angrily, stomping after the older man. He stood directly behind him, feeling his face grow warm with his embarrassment.

Not only was he half dressed and completely exposed, but now Rick was _going through his things?_ It was such a violation! Rick didn’t have any right to do this! 

Rick pulled away from Morty’s closet, holding one of his shirts and a pair of his jeans. He shoved the pair of clothing and the jacket harshly into the teen’s chest, forcing him to take it. Both garments were still dirty, and Morty wrinkled his nose as he held them out in front of him. The shirt had a stain on the front, and he was pretty sure he’d worn this exact pair of jeans for three weeks straight before finally deciding to change them out for a cleaner pair. Everything about this was unhygienic. 

“Get dressed, we’re going on an adventure.” Rick demanded, no room for argument in his voice. 

Morty gaped at him for a few moments, his mouth moving without sound. He held the clothes out in front of of him with disgust, glaring at Rick incredulously. “I-I-I’m— I am _not_ going anywhere with you, Rick!” He said, taking a step back. _Especially not in dirty clothes._ “What part of _‘I don’t want to talk to you’_ do you not understand?! Geez, just leave me alone!”

He couldn’t believe what Rick was saying. Did he really think Morty would be able to handle an adventure right now, of all times?! He felt anger flare up within him. He could punch Rick right now. He really could. But he knew he wouldn’t. 

Rick glared at Morty, his rage evident in how his shoulders tensed and his hands clenched at his sides once again. Patience and understanding weren’t something Rick was particularly good at unless it involved science. “Morty, if you don’t put your fucking clothes on _right now,_ I won’t hesitate to drag your ass through the portal while you’re still practically _naked_. I don’t give a fuck either way, so you better make a decision right now.”

Morty flushed at the embarrassing implications of walking around on some random alien planet in only his underwear, once again gaping at Rick stupidly. “What t-the fuck, Rick? Y-y-y-you can’t do that!” He protested, shaking his head in pure disbelief. 

Rick reached into his lab coat and pulled out his Portal Gun, taking a step towards Morty threateningly with a wildly serious look in his eyes. “Don’t test me, Morty, I’m not fucking joking.”

Morty sent him a glare, wishing he could call his bluff. But he knew Rick, and he wasn’t a man of empty threats. He’d do it if it actually came down to it, not caring if it emotionally scarred the teen for the rest of his life. Rick was just like that. And looking into his eyes right now, he could see how serious Rick was about this. No fucks were being given to him right now. 

So, begrudgingly, and more than a little bitter, he pulled his yellow shirt over his head, scrunching his nose up at the subtle smell of sweat and body odor. He pulled his jeans on and buttoned them up slowly, purposely stalling the inevitable. He was in no condition for an adventure right now— he was tried and weak, and emotionally fragile. Well, more so than usual, at least. 

As he slid the jacket on, he felt a small amount of relief fill him despite the situation. It was weird, but he felt more secure wearing it. He guessed that, because it concealed his physical scars, it helped him pretend the mental ones were hidden, too. However, his arm quickly felt irritated as the fabric rubbed against his sensitive cuts roughly. It reminded him that he needed to bandage them up later. He made a quick mental node to do that when he had the chance. 

“Alright, c’mon,” Rick said, shooting a portal into the middle of the room and snatching Morty by his uninjured arm. The teen quickly noticed that Rick had been careful not to touch the arm he cuts ever since he saw it. 

Morty stumbled slightly as Rick pulled him towards the green, swirling rip in time and space. “W-wait! I need to put my shoes on!”

Rick sighed, turning back to him with frustration evident on his face. His patience in this situation was wearing thin. “You won’t need them where we’re going.” He said, pulling Morty through the portal without hesitation. 

On the other side, Morty was met with the sight of space. He gasped in surprise, fearing for a spare moment that there wasn’t any oxygen. But the gasp alone was enough to assure him that he could breathe in this place, wherever it was.

As he looked around some more, he realized that they were on a very small planet. It was so small that it was only about the size of their house. It was covered in a layer of grass that reached just barely past his ankles, and a little further down on the other side of the planet, he could see a few small rivers that wound through each other and branched out.

There seemed to be no intelligent life-forms, from what Morty could tell— hell, the only thing he could really see was the grass and the tiny rivers. 

He looked back up towards the sky and out to space, admiring the beautiful stars that seemed so far out of reach. 

“Where are we, Rick?” Morty asked in awe, continuing to look around in astonishment. He couldn’t help but be awed by the sight— even before he knew Rick, he’d always loved anything to do with space. It’s part of why he immediately became fascinated with Rick back when they first met. 

Rick was standing a few feet in front of him, his hands proudly placed on his hips as he gazed around much like Morty was. “This is Mortimer-2002, Morty.” He explained without skipping a beat. 

Morty blinked a couple of times in confusion, his awe quickly fading away as the name processed in his mind. “Wait, what?” The name of the planet was literally his name? And the year he was born? The hell? Something wasn’t adding up. 

Rick lowered his head for a moment, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at Morty over his shoulder, a longing gaze in his eyes— like he was lost in a distant memory inside his head. “This is a planet I created for you.” He continued to explain, his voice neutral. “I-I didn’t know when I was going to give it to you. Maybe one of your birthdays, or on some random Christmas, but I guess now is a good time, too.”

Morty stared at Rick in confusion, his mouth gaping slightly for the millionth time today. “Y-you made a _planet_ for me?” He asked incredulously, struggling to believe the older man. He couldn’t even imagine Rick doing something like this for him. 

_But then again... he **did** create a whole imaginary world (Froopyland) for his mother when she was just a child..._

“Yeah,” Rick shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back in his heels for a second almost awkwardly. “I-I created it a few days after you were born. Y-y-you can do whatever you want with this thing... it’s plain right now because you’re supposed to create whatever you want on it... build whatever you want... have your own little slice of the universe all to yourself...”

Morty let out a wry laugh. “You _literally_ created a planet for me so I could play God with it?” 

Rick shrugged again. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“But why?” Morty questioned, still not fully understanding. “And why show me _now?”_

Rick sighed again, more heavily than the other times, and sunk down to the ground, throwing his legs straight out in front of him and leaning back on his hands as he looked up out towards the stars. He didn’t answer Morty’s question. 

Morty frowned at Rick’s lack of response. He stood next to the blue-haired man, peering down at him. “Rick, I-I don’t want you to start treating me all nice now just because... b-be-because of what you saw.” He unconsciously grabbed at his arm as he spoke. “If you’re showing me this because you feel pity—“

“—I don’t feel pity for you.” Rick cut him off with a scoff, turning his head to glare up at Morty. He reached up and grabbed Morty’s wrist, tugging at it until the teen reluctantly sat next to him. Rick leaned towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

Morty grumbled, scooting a few inches away from Rick.

“Morty, _stop_.” Rick growled in frustration, reaching for something in his lab coat. “Let me see your arm. _Now_.”

Morty sent Rick a glare as he watched him pull out a container of some sort— another item of which he hadn’t seen the outline of through the lab coat. “Why, Rick? And do you have a black hole on your coat? You keep pulling things out of it like you’re a magician.”

“It’s a pocket universe, Morty.” Rick rolled his eyes in annoyance like it was such a simple explanation. 

“Like, uh... kind of like Hermione’s purse from _Harry Potter?”_ Morty questioned, quirking a brow at him in confusion. He was mostly just trying to make sense of how Rick’s lab coat pockets seemed hold everything. 

Rick stared at Morty, completely deadpanned. “Like a _pocket universe,_ Morty.” He unscrewed the lid on the container, setting it on the ground beside him. Inside, there was a green goo-like substance. “Now let me see your arm already.”

Morty stared at Rick, his brow furrowing with his distrust as he leaned away from him. _“Why?”_ He asked again. He wasn’t going to blindly hand over his arm just like that. 

Rick groaned, throwing his head back in annoyance. “It’s a fucking healing salve, Morty. What else?” He explained, frustration evident in his voice. He reached out and instead grabbed Morty’s arm, pulling it towards him and gently pushing up his jacket sleeve.

Morty felt shame fill within him as he stared at the cuts that were so visible on his arm. All of them were pretty scabbed up, and practically glowing with an angry red on his skin. He tried to weakly tug his arm away, but Rick didn’t let him. 

“R-Rick...” Morty’s voice wavered as he spoke, his heart pounding harshly in his chest. He didn’t like this. Not one part of this whole interaction eased his nerves at all. 

Rick met Morty’s eyes, his annoyed expression softening just ever so slightly. “It’s okay, Morty.” He said, sticking two fingers into the container and pulling out a dollop of the green goo. He gently pressed his fingers to the cuts, and Morty hissed, flinching slightly at the unexpected sting it caused. 

He carefully spread the healing salve over the expanse of his forearm, doing his best not to cause Morty any more pain by pressing his fingers into the wounds. His touch was featherlight. 

Morty watched in surprise as the cuts quickly healed, the scabs fading away in only a couple of moments as his skin seemed to stitch itself back together like magic. The feeling was odd, the sting slowly fading away as the goo was absorbed into his skin. 

Rick finally let go of his arm once everything was healed, and Morty pulled it back, looking at the perfectly healed skin. He carefully ran his fingers over it, not knowing how to feel about how smooth it and clear it was. There wasn’t a single thing to hint that he’d ever even cut himself before— not even a faint scar. Just, _nothing_.

Like it never even happened. 

Tears quickly formed in his eyes and fell down his cheeks, and he cradled his arm to his chest. He felt entirely empty now that there wasn’t any evidence to prove that he could be hurt. To prove that he could feel, to prove that he was _human_ , and not some emotionless husk. 

Rick didn’t understand the delicacies of why Morty cut, and without even trying, he’d ripped something right out of the brunette’s soul. 

Rick carefully put the healing salve away and placed his hand on Morty’s back, running it up and down in a comforting way. “Morty...” He said softly, not at all realizing how he’d pretty much bulldozed through Morty’s delicately put up walls. “I-I want you to tell me why you’ve been doing this to yourself.”

Morty shifted, pulling himself further away from Rick. He couldn’t bare to have Rick touch him right now. “W-why should I answer you when you can’t even answer me?” He sniffled, fully prepared to use whatever he could to attack Rick with his words. 

Rick felt his heart tighten painfully in his chest, and he pulled back slightly, as if Morty had burned him. 

“Tell me why you made the bracelet, a-and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” Morty said, not looking at Rick as he hastily wiped at his face. He meant every word— if only Rick could give him some sort of closure, he’d feel a million times better. Even if he didn’t like what Rick had to say, it would help him move on. 

And after he moved on, he wouldn’t have to be around Rick any more. The older man obviously didn’t want to be near him. If Rick could tell him _why_ , everything would get easier. He hoped. 

“Morty, I-I don’t have a reason.” Rick said plainly, and Morty immediately knew that he was hiding something. It was just something about the way he said it; it was in his tone. “I just... made it, you know?”

“Bullshit.” Morty muttered. “I’m not stupid, Rick.” He looked over at his grandpa, his eyes still glossy with tears. Rick could see his own reflection from within them. “I-I-I know I can seem like I am sometimes— fuck, I pretty sure most of me is stupid... b-but not with _this_ , Rick. I’m dumb, but I’m not _that_ dumb. There’s a reason, I just... I-I... I _know_ there is...”

_There had to be a reason._

Morty trailed off, looking down at his hands, which were both limp in his lap. 

Rick was starting to feel uncomfortable with where the conversation was going, and Morty saw his eyes nervously glance to the side before he looked at the teen again and he hardened his expression. 

“You’re overthinking it, _Morty.”_ He growled harshly. “I’m surprised you pea-sized brain is even capable of doing such a thing.” Here he was, right back at it with the defensive insults. Rick cringed at himself. That wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing right now. 

Morty frowned, turning to glare back at Rick. He dragged him out here against his will, healed the cuts that he didn’t want to be healed, and now he was as insulting him? “Y-Y-You’re a fucking asshole, Rick. I-I-I don’t even know why I put up with you.”

Morty didn’t miss the millisecond-long look of hurt that flashed across Ricks face the moment the words left his mouth, and it only made him more enraged. Immediately, he rose at the chance to _really_ dig his claws into the situation. “Oh my _god_ , Rick. You’re really hurt by that? _Are you joking?”_ He scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he looked up towards the stars. 

Usually he avoided exposing Rick like that because he knew it made him feel uncomfortable, but Morty was hurt, and he couldn’t help but use what he could to get under the scientist’s skin right now. 

Rick scowled deeply at the teen, an offended look on his face. “What the fuck are you—“

“God, _just stop!”_ Morty snapped before Rick could continue. “You’re such a hypocrite, you know? Why do you think I have to answer _your_ questions when you can’t even answer _mine?_ Why is it okay for you to insult me, but not okay when _I_ insult _you?_ Why are you so hurt when y-you should have seen it coming? If you insult someone, t-the most common thing to happen is y-y-you get insulted back. I-I’m not the fucking bad guy here, so stop acting all hurt!” 

Rick clenched his jaw closed, glaring at Morty. He wasn’t about to answer any or Morty’s questions. He didn’t even want to give a reaction to it. He knew Morty was right— he was being a hypocrite, but he couldn’t tell him why he made the bracelet. It would ruin everything. 

“Rick,” Morty said, burying his face in his hands and shaking his head. He took a deep, long breath before speaking again, his voice broken and weak, but still angry. “I-I don’t know how much longer I-I c-can put up with this...”

Rick stared at his grandson, unable to speak, unable to move— he couldn’t; he was frozen. He couldn’t formulate thoughts, couldn’t figure out how to feel about this situation. He didn’t know what he had to do, what was the _correct_ answer to this impossible-to-solve riddle. He wasn’t good with emotions and words; he never had been. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. 

“I’m so tired of everything, Rick.” Morty went on, and his voice began to sound angrier with each word, the emotion seeming to return to him. “I’m tired of _you._ I’m tired of loving you and not getting anything in return— I’m tired of giving and not receiving. You’re a fucking _asshole_ , Rick. Sometimes I really wish y-you’d never even come home.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted it. He didn’t mean that last part. He loved Rick unconditionally, even now. He was glad he came back even though it resulted in this. But he was so blinded by his anger that he didn’t care enough to apologize— didn’t care enough stop the words that were flowing from his mouth, however untrue they were. Part of him felt like Rick deserved to hear something like that, even if he didn’t mean it. 

Rick felt like needles were penetrating his heart with each and every word. 

Morty was practically shaking with anger, looking at Rick with a cold glare. He _still_ wasn’t talking, and he wasn’t giving him any answers. He was just _staring_. “Why can’t you fucking answer my question?! After _everything_ we went through, you can’t even tell me why?! You don’t even have the decency to _fucking_ tell me why you ditched me?! Y-you’re so fucking horrible, Rick!” 

“I made the fucking bracelet because you drive me up the fucking wall, Morty!” Rick snapped, reaching to his side and snatching Morty’s arm. He held on tightly, his fingers trembling with how much force he used. 

Morty yelped in pain, grabbing Rick’s wrist in a defensive reflex; however, the surprise wasn’t enough to wipe the anger from Morty’s face for even a spare second. Rick quickly loosened his grip when Morty grabbed his wrist, and he immediately felt guilt slam into something deep within him. He hadn’t meant to grab the kid like that. 

“WELL, I’M SORRY I’M SUCH A _NUISANCE_ , RICK!” Morty yelled in his face, harshly yanking his arm from Rick’s hold. He suddenly shoved Rick in the chest, using so much force that he not only managed to push Rick down, but he accidentally fell on top of him as well. He didn’t let the mistake deter him in any way, though, and he kept his hands planted firmly on Rick’s shoulders as he leaned over him. 

“I-I ALWAYS TRIED MY BEST, YOU ASSHOLE!” He yelled as he stared wildly down at him. “ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO MAKE YOU HAPPY! YOU WERE MY ONLY _FRIEND_ , RICK, A-AND YOU THREW ME AWAY!”

Despite the harsh words and the situation, tears were streaming down Morty’s face, some of them falling from his eyes and landing on Rick’s face.

The older man growled, shoving Morty in the chest and swiftly flipping him around so that he was on top instead. He pinned Morty’s wrists down to the ground, keeping him in place and climbing on top of him. “THAT’S NOT WHAT I FUCKING MEANT, YOU IDIOT!” 

Morty strained against Rick’s hold, letting out a few small whimpers. “What the fuck else could you mean?!” He cried, lifting his head slightly so he could glower at Rick. He clenched his teeth together in anger. He wasn’t afraid of Rick, and he wanted the older man to know that, so he struggled more against his hold, trying to rips his hands from his grasp. 

Rick growled again before he suddenly leaned down closer to Morty and pressed their lips together. 

Morty gasped at the unexpected action, his entire body freezing up on him. He couldn’t even _fathom_ what was happening. All he knew was that Rick’s face was so close to his face, and this was so, _so_ , wrong. 

An array of emotions were flooding through his system at rapid speed, both good and bad, and he was so _confused_. His brain was struggling not to short-circuit as his whole body grew tense underneath Rick’s body. 

Rick’s lips were surprisingly soft, and he could faintly taste wafer cookies underlying the taste of alcohol. He didn’t respond to the kiss, unable to even think about his options. He was just so lost— completely _dumbfounded_ that this was a thing that was even happening. 

_Rick Sanchez— his own **grandfather** —_

Rick pulled away just as quickly as he’d initiated the kiss. He got off of Morty, completely withdrawing from him in under a second and sitting beside him. He was panting slightly, a red flush on his face and a guilty look in his eyes. 

Morty stayed laying on the ground, panting just as heavily as Rick was. His eyes were wide as he stared out into the infinity of space, his heart pounding harshly against his rib cage. The kiss had only lasted about a couple of seconds, but the shock of it hadn’t worn off at all. 

“You s-see now, Morty?” Rick said breathlessly, looking straight ahead of himself, his eyes far away from everything. “You see now w-why I made this thing?” He lifted his arm up, looking down at the metal bracelet. 

Morty turned his head towards Rick, cringing when the long grass brushed against the heated skin of his cheeks. 

“Rick...” He said, his voice wavering as he tried to put his emotions into words. “What the _hell_ even was that?” He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, his mouth parted slightly as he tried to process what his own _grandfather_ had just done to him. 

“It’s pretty obvious what that was, kid.” Rick shrugged, refusing look at him. 

That didn’t tell Morty anything. He still didn’t understand what Rick was trying to tell him. He felt stupid, but a kiss like that could mean a _lot_ of things. 

Morty sat up completely, rubbing at his left temple as he continued to struggle with fathoming what had happened. He just couldn’t believe it. There was _no way._ “This is fucking crazy, Rick.” He said, voice laced with anger. “It’s— it’s... it’s _disgusting_ , Rick... why would you...”

He trailed off, unable to think of anything else he could say. The anger towards the kiss that he’d tried to conjure faded before he could really take it anywhere. What the hell did Rick even _mean?_ Did he just... have some sick, twisted desire for Morty’s body? Was he some sort of pedophile? He scrunched up his nose in disgust at the thought. He couldn’t _believe_ Rick would stoop so low as to have a sexual desire for his own _grandson_.

_And Morty was disgusted with himself for not hating it... for not being more angry..._

“I’m sorry.” Rick said, his head lowering slightly as he slouched. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Morty by kissing him, but it had been the only thing he could think to do in that moment. He’d never been good with words— he was a man of action and he tended to do a lot of things on impulse. This was one of those times when his impulses really fucked him over. 

_Oh god, he basically just sexually assaulted his own grandson!_ Rick paled slightly as the thought ran over in his mind. He couldn’t let himself do that ever again. “I’m so, so sorry, Morty...” He ran a hand stressfully through his hair. 

Morty completely tensed at those words. It wasn’t like Rick to apologize like that. He didn’t _understand_. “W-why would you want to do that to me?” He mumbled, running his hands through his hair and pulling harshly at the strands. Morty didn’t think he was attractive. His brown hair was always messy, his eyes were too big for his face, and his skin was too pale— hell, even when he managed to tan a little during the summer, he was still too pale. There were plenty of smaller details that gave Morty more of a reason to think he was unattractive, so he couldn’t imagine why _Rick_ thought he was. “I-I can’t even— just,  _why_...?” 

Rick let out a shuttered breath of air, shaking his head. He didn’t answer Morty, freezing up in the same way that he had earlier. He couldn’t do that again. _Never again._ What he did today was wrong. He should have found some way to just _say_ it, some way to explain the motivation for the bracelet and why they couldn’t be close anymore. He shouldn’t have done that. 

Now not only did he need to find a way to make up for what he did, but he had to restrain himself now. He couldn’t ditch Morty; the kid was falling apart without him. And that meant he had to control himself. He had to suppress how he felt. He had to forget. 

“I-I want to go home.” Morty whispered, letting out a small, pained whimper. He needed space. He needed to be alone— to be _away_ from Rick. 

“First, why do you cut yourself?” Rick countered.

Morty ran his hand up and down his left forearm, feeling the perfectly healthy and unblemished skin. He still didn’t want to tell Rick. He _hated_ that he now had to, but a deal is a deal, after all, right? He’d be a hypocrite to go back on it now. 

“It... it makes me _feel_ something, Rick...” He explained, trying not to think too much about what he was saying and who he was saying it to. He was doing this because he felt like he was obligated to; not because he wanted to. This was the last thing he wanted to talk to Rick about. 

Rick looked at Morty, his brow furrowed. Even if it was hard to talk about, Rick was thankful for the change in subject. Neither of them needed to be worrying about Rick’s fucked up _emotions_ right now. “What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Morty sniffled, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I f-feel...” He hesitated. “I feel... like I-I can’t feel anything. L-like I’ve been through s-so many horrible things that when something bad happens, I-I don’t feel bad about it anymore... b-but when I cut, it helps me feel... it helps me feel _something_...”

He didn’t say that it only made him feel ashamed after he did it, though. He didn’t say that it caused him more trouble than it was worth in the end. He didn’t say that he couldn’t bring himself to stop, either. And he definitely didn’t tell Rick that he didn’t eat like he used to, and that he didn’t care if he died anymore. 

_Why would he want to tell him after learning about Rick’s true desire? Shouldn’t he still be yelling about that?_

Rick was silent for a short while, thinking about what Morty was saying. He definitely wasn’t well-equipped for this sort of thing, so all he could do was try. “How c-can I get you to stop?” 

Morty’s eyes widened at the question, and he looked over at Rick, his mouth opened slightly in surprise. It completely caught him off guard— of out anything he expected Rick to say, that was one of the furthest things from it. “I... _what?”_

“You heard me.” Rick mumbled. “What do I have to do?”

Morty stared at him in disbelief. “Rick, I-I can’t just— I’m not— I don’t cut as some stupid act of r-rebellion. Y-you can’t just do something to magically fix this.” He gestured to himself. 

Rick whipped his head around, grabbing both of Morty’s shoulders. “Well I can’t just do nothing, Morty!” He snapped. 

“T-That’s the only thing you _can_ do, Rick!” Morty snapped back, pushing the man harshly away from him once again, but he couldn’t get him to let go. He was unused to Rick being so touchy like this. “I-I’m _broken!_ I-I’ll never— I won’t fall into your footsteps, or mom’s, or dad’s, but I’m already broken! I-I can’t be fixed!” 

The air around them grew silent after that. 

Rick deflated slightly at Morty’s words, but he continued to hold on tightly to Morty’s arms, pulling him closer. “ _Please_ , there has to be something.” He pleaded. “T-tell me what I can do to make up for it. _Please_.“

Morty grabbed the labels of Rick’s lab coat, not sure what he was supposed to do. Why was Rick acting like this? _Was he even the same guy?_

He ignored him for _months_ , and now all of a sudden he was pleading at his feet for forgiveness? It didn’t make any sense! Why was he toying with Morty’s emotions like this?! 

“Y-y-you’re not making any sense!” Morty choked out, feeling completely and hopelessly lost with the situation. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears leaked steadily from them, and he let out a small sob as his head fell to Rick’s chest. “Stop d-doing this to me...” He cried. His hands were holding on to Rick’s lab coat so tightly that his hands were trembling. He both wanted to hit Rick and hug him, and he didn’t know what to do with those emotions. 

“Wha...” Rick’s whole body seemed to grow tense. “What? S-stop doing what?”

“I-I-I can’t take it anymore, Rick...” Morty whimpered. “I-I can’t handle the mind games, a-and—and the contradictions... _I just can’t_...”

Rick tried to push Morty back so he could see his face, but the teen wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want Rick to see his face. 

“Y-you can’t do this...” The brunette said, barely above a whisper. “Y-you can’t hate me a-and then say you— a-and then _kiss_ me, you c-can’t say y-you want to fix things after you left me behind... I-I can’t handle this... I can’t handle the lies and t-the contradictions...”

Rick was so focused on Morty’s words that he forgot to breathe for a moment. It was so hard for him to hear what Morty was saying, it was so hard for him to actually talk and open up to the kid. It was hard to be _honest_ with him, and he was struggling immensely not to push him away all over again.

It’s how he’d always handled every relationship in his life— when things get too harry, push away. Escape. Close down. _Leave_. And he had a whole life’s worth of of a habit working against him when it came to this. 

The thing is, he really didn’t have a _choice_ but to open up. He’d hurt Morty too much already— he saw that now. He had to fix it, and the only way to do that was to come clean. He had to be honest, open, and real. 

He had to be raw He had to be understanding. He had to be _kinder_. 

Morty was the only person he actually cared about, and for once in his life, he actually had to put forth some effort to maintain the relationship that they had. 

He didn’t know how he was supposed to do that, especially with how badly he’d already fucked the kid up. He’d traumatized him so in many different ways, and he’d pretty much emotionally abused him. Rick was a garbage person, and he knew it. He’s already fucked up so epically, but he had to fix it. He _had_ to.

He just had to figure out _how_. Rick didn’t have a single goddamn clue, but being honest and actually talking had to count for something, right? It’s something he’s very _vaguely_ done with the boy on very rare occasions in the past, and the results have always been better than pretty much everything else he’s done to the boy.

And that’s how it _always_ fucking works in the movies, so there had so be some sort of correlation there. _Right?_ He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. 

“T-there won’t be any more lies.” Rick said calmly. “I-I’ll be honest.” He knew Morty wouldn’t believe him, but he was determined to prove him wrong. 

Morty wasn’t convinced. There’s no way he’ll do any of that. He finally pushed away, his eyes red and puffy from crying, tears staining his cheeks. He couldn’t meet Rick’s eyes. “I-I want to go home.” He reiterated from earlier. 

Rick stared at Morty for a long while before he let out a sigh. “Okay,” He said, pushing away from Morty and standing up. He guessed he could cut Morty some slack. It might not seem like it, but he knew that they’d made progress. Even if it was only by a little. He pulled his Portal Gun out of his lab coat. “L-lets go home, then.”

He shot a portal and stepped through without looking back, fully trusting that Morty would follow him though. 

Morty slowly pushed himself up, struggling to wipe the tears from his face. He took one last look around at the miniature planet before he stepped through the portal as well. 

He couldn’t help but realize that the whole conversation had only made him more confused. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It’s greatly appreciated! And I can confidently say that I’m much more proud of the chapters I’ve written after this one, so it’ll take less time for me to get it out as long as Marching Band and school doesn’t get in my way too much.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don’t know when I’ll post the next chapter because I’m working on this one slowly, but I promise I’ll update eventually.


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